POOR 


I-KFREDMAN 


POOR  PEOPLE 


BY 


I.  K.  FRIEDMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  LUCKY  NUMBER" 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1900 


COPYRIGHT,    1900,  BY   I.  K.  FRIEDMAN 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

PROEM 1 

I.  AN  EVENING  AT  HOME 5 

II.  A  DAY  WITH  THE  VOGELS 13 

III.  THE  WRITER  OF  PLAYS 24 

IV.  A  LETTER  TO  THE  DEAD 34 

V.  SOME  MORE  NEIGHBORS 39 

VI.  IDA  CALLS  ON  ADOLPH 50 

VII.    ADOLPH  CALLS  ON  IDA 58 

VIII.  THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT 63 

IX.  WHEN  THE  LIGHTS  ARE  OUT  ....  75 

X.  THE  UNEMPLOYED 82 

XI.  THE  FORTUNE-TELLER 90 

XII.  THE  CONFESSION 98 

XIII.  HUNGER Ill 

XIV.  THE  WEDDING 125 

XV.  THE  FEAST 132 

XVI.  ALL  IN  A  WEEK 141 

XVII.  THE  PAPER  IN  THE  WIND       ....  152 

XVIII.  DUTY 161 

XIX.   THE  TISSUE  OF  DREAMS 166 

XX.  LAST  WORDS 173 

XXI.  VOGEL'S  COURTSHIP 182 

XXII.  ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD 190 

XXIII.  THE  NEW  HOME 203 

XXIV.  THE  RETURN 214 

XXV.  POOR  PEOPLE 224 

EPILOGUE       .                                       .  242 


442327 


POOR   PEOPLE 


PROEM 

IT  is  an  old  tenement,  drab,  cheerless,  and  dreary ; 
innumerable  the  rains  and  the  winds  that  have 
beaten  and  browned  its  forlorn  frame ;  endless  the 
sordid  tragedies  that  have  strutted  with  buskined 
foot  gloomily  across  its  narrow  stage ;  and  the  * 
petty  comedies  of  three  generations  have  awakened 
hollow  laughter  in  its  grimy  halls.  Comic  enough 
may  seem  those  tragedies,  and  tragic  enough  those 
comedies  now  that  the  chief  actors  have  turned  to 
dust,  and  sock  and  buskin  lie  shapeless  and  indis- 
tinguishable in  the  all-enshrouding  mould ;  useless 
the  mocking  mummery  of  mask  and  masqueraders 
alike ;  of  little  avail  the  smiling  face  the  soul-sick 
jester  wore  ;  idle  the  care-furrowed  brow  feigned 
by  the  haughty  mien  laughing  in  the  sombre  sleeve 
of  black,  now  that  through  the  glass  of  eternity, 
wherein  the  true  is  determined  from  the  false,  the 
tenement  reviews  the  passing  pageantry  of  the 
past. 

'  Natheless,  the  tenement  still  stands  in  sphinx- 
like  solemnity,  refusing  to  unriddle  the  enigma  of 
existence  to  those  who  find  life  a  burden ;  to  the 


POOR  PEOPLE 

.poor  and  the  lowly  who  seek  nocturnal  shelter  in 
its  halls,  their  strong  shoulders  aching,  their  feet 
bleeding  from  the  carrying  of  heavy  fardels  up 

v  the  thorn-besprent  hill  of  poverty  through  the  long 
day. 

No  celestial  anodyne  will  the  tenement  pour 
from  the  vials  of  truth  to  ease  the  souls  tormented 
by  profitless  pondering  over  the  inequality  of  op- 
portunity and  the  injustice  of  distribution.  It 
welcomes  us  not  with  outstretched  hands ;  impas- 
sive it  remains  to  our  goings  and  our  comings; 
even  as  with  countenance  unchanging  it  heard  the 
birth  cry  of  our  fathers  and  the  death  sob  of  their 
sires. 

r  Over  the  entrance  methinks  I  see,  blazoned 
with  the  blood  of  broken  hearts,  the  inscription, 
"Abandon  All  Hope  Ye  Who  Enter  Here." 
Many  the  ways  that  lead  hither,  but  through  the 
narrow  gateway  of  death  leads  the  one  path  with- 
out. Laughter,  loving  us  not,  seeks  lighter  dis- 
positions for  permanent  home;  sorrow  squats  at 
the  threshold  snarling  and  snapping  at  misery, 
want,  and  woe,  covetous  of  its  coign. 

Art  battles  here  with  poverty,  and  the  struggle 
for  survival  is  cruel,  fierce,  and  terrible.  The 
lonely  student,  exhausted  from  the  toil  and  tur- 
moil of  trade,  struggles  with  sleep  for  knowledge ; 
the  delicate  flower  of  love  tries  again  and  again  to 
sink  its  perishable  rootlets  in  our  unfavorable  soil ; 
the  miser  starves  and  dreams  of  fabulous  fortune, 
feeding  his  hunger  with  the  shadow  of  the  sub- 
stance it  craves.  Divers  the  aims  here,  different 


PROEM  3 

the  ambitions  as  varied  the  peoples,  but  common 
ties  bind  them  together ;  down  divergent  paths  roll 
their  dreams,  yet  the  end  of  their  journey  is  one. 

The  voice  of  the  tenement  is  "  The  Song  of  the 
Shirt."  The  sad  monotone  is  never  silent ;  when 
the  tears  of  the  tenement  are  hushed  the  song  will 
be  stilled.  The  shuttles  of  the  whirring  machines 
move  to  its  measure ;  needle  and  thread  whisper 
the  lines  as  they  fly  their  endless  flight  through 
cloth  and  linen,  and  the  world-weary  seamstress 
sighs  its  tristful  tones.  A  tear  congealed  is  the 
symbol  of  the  sweaters'  lives.  Weeping  is  a  lux- 
ury in  which  they  may  not  indulge.  Under  the 
iron  heels  of  the  machines  have  they  crushed  out 
every  emotion  and  passion,  making  themselves 
machines  to  work  like  machines.  Beam  and  rafter 
and  wall  have  learned  the  rueful  rhymes  by  con- 
stant repetition,  and  in  the  dead  of  the  night  when 
the  machines  are  covered  —  their  restless  sleep  af- 
frighted by  the  phantom  of  some  pale  sweater 
coming  in  the  darkness  to  rob  them  of  their  rest 
—  I  can  hear  wall  and  beam  and  rafter  moan  the 
melancholy  song  from  basement  to  garret;  the 
words  come  wailing  down  from  above,  and  from 
below  they  sob  their  upward  way. 

Often  have  I  thought  of  the  tenement  as  a  mine, 
dark,  dank,  and  gloomy ;  its  walls  and  floors  wet 
with  the  oozing  of  human  tears ;  its  tortuous  halls 
and  small  chambers  countless  winding  dismally 
through  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  Here  the  sun- 
light  never  enters,  and  the  purblind  miner  moils 
without  faith,  without  hope,  and  without  light. 


4  POOR  PEOPLE 

Yet  in  the  forbidding  depths  of  the  mine  are  hid 
glittering  nuggets  of  pure  gold,  and  to  him  who 
diggeth  deep  and  diligently  shall  be  given. 

Angel  of  Charity  and  Mercy,  descend  with  thy 
shining  lamp,  hold  thy  cheering  light  aloft  and  let 
its  rays  surround  me,  lest  I  grow  faint  of  heart  in 
the  darkness  and  cease  my  labor  before  I  have  un- 
earthed the  gold  which  I  seek ;  nay,  lest  I  spurn 
the  treasure  my  foot  stands  upon,  and  mine  eyes 
know  it  not. 


CHAPTER  I 

AN   EVENING  AT   HOME 

MY  slippers  were  on,  my  pipe  was  puffing  peace- 
fully, my  elbows  were  leaning  restfully  on  the  table 
as  I  sat  writing  the  score  for  the  oboe  and  the 
flageolet  of  my  opera,  when  a  loud  knock  thumped 
at  the  door.  I  laid  my  pen  down,  fearful  lest  the 
melody  running  through  my  head  had  been  knocked 
out  of  existence.  No  one  ever  comes  at  that  hour 
(it  was  after  eleven)  except  to  borrow  something, 
and  no  one  ever  wishes  to  borrow  anything  at  that 
hour  save  Vogel,  who  is  just  overhead ;  and  Mrs. 
Freytag,  who  is  just  underfoot.  Mrs.  Freytag 
comes  for  the  toasting-irons ;  Vogel  for  a  half  dol- 
lar. I  hoped  that  it  was  Mrs.  Freytag  —  I  always 
chose  the  lesser  of  two  evils. 

My  wife  had  gone  to  bed,  and  my  daughter  Ida 
opened  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Vogel  wants  to  see  you,  father,"  came  her 
soft  voice. 

"  Herr  Vogel,  pleese,"  corrected  the  cabinet- 
maker. Vogel  is  as  dignified  when  he  requests 
assistance  as  if  he  were  granting  it. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  I,  knowing  the  quickest 
way  to  rid  myself  of  Vogel  is  to  get  rid  of  my 
money.  Besides,  I  must  do  Vogel  justice,  he  al- 


POOR  PEOPLE 

.to'pay  me  back;  and  so  he  would 
•-^-  if  lie  kept;his'']5n)mises. 

"Ach,  Herr  Vilson,"  he  began,  "could  you 
oblige  me  a  half  dollar  mit?  I  vas  so  sorry  to 
drubble  you,  but  I  could  no  vork  get  dis  veek, 
und  mein  sohn,  Adolph,  is  also  von  vork  out." 

"  And  you  will  take  the  money  and  spend  it  for 
drink  before  another  hour  is  over." 

"  Not  dis  dime,  Mr.  Vilson  ;  I  vill  take  Adolph 
mit  me  to  buy  coal  und  vood." 

It  was  always  the  same  answer  to  the  same 
question.  I  gave  him  the  money ;  I  always  do,  for 
if  I  refuse  he  has  but  to  go  below  and  raise  the 
loan  from  the  carpenter,  Rounds,  who  makes  him 
pay  it  back  by  a  day's  work,  thereby  making  two 
dollars  on  every  half  dollar  he  lends.  Besides,  he 
will  drink  any  way  —  argument  and  pleading  only 
make  a  difference  in  time,  never  in  amount. 

He  rubs  his  hands,  and  bows  with  his  small, 
stunted,  thin  body.  Vogel  looks  as  if  the  wind 
would  blow  him  away  if  he  would  but  give  it  a 
fair  chance.  His  big  broad  head  is  too  large  for 
his  thin  neck,  and  generally  leans  towards  his  left 
shoulder.  He  has  no  eyebrows  worth  the  mention, 
and  his  eyes  are  worthy  of  the  finest  brows  in  the 
world ;  so  large  and  deep-set  and  blue  are  they. 

"  Ach,  Mr.  Vilson,  you  vas  de  grand  musikant 
—  de  grand  musician.  You  make  de  great  operas 
vich  de  vorld  vill  come  to  see.  Und  you  vill  be 
great,  your  picture  vill  be  in  de  paper,  und  I  vill 
carry  de  paper  mit,  und  "  — 


AN  EVENING  AT  HOME  7 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  I  know  all  about  that,"  and  I  turn 
to  my  work  again. 

Herr  Vogel  showers  compliments  on  my  daugh- 
ter Ida.  "  You  vas  like  a  rose  your  red  scheeks 
mit.  You  vas  schveet  like  de  stars.  I  tells  mein 
sohn  Adolph  often  dat  vas  de  Jung  lady  vat  I 
visch  "  — 

Ida  turns  away.  Herr  Vogel,  "washing  his 
hands  with  invisible  soap  in  imperceptible  water," 
leaves  the  room.  My  half  dollar  leaves  with  him. 
I  turn  to  my  "  partitur  "  again. 

"  What  night  is  this,  Ida? " 

"Friday,  father." 

Mrs.  Freytag  usually  comes  on  Thursday ;  so  I 
am  safe  to  work  for  an  hour  without  interruption 
by  anything  save  sleepiness.  I  have  written  the 
air  down  for  the  oboe,  whistling  to  myself  as  I 
score. 

"  That  is  beautiful,  father." 

"Eh,  I  thought  you  had  gone  to  bed  an  hour 
ago." 

"  You  know  that  I  always  wait  for  you." 

"  I  suppose  if  I  never  went  to  bed  you  would  n't." 

"  It 's  the  other  way  —  if  I  did  n't  stay  up,  you 
would  never  go  to  bed." 

I  continue  to  write  the  notes  down  as  they  pass 
whistling  through  my  head.  Ida  has  laid  her 
novel  aside  —  she  uses  her  eyes  all  day  and  she 
must  be  sparing  of  them  at  night.  I  look  up.  She 
is  always  ready  to  speak  when  I  look  up. 

"You  don't  like  Mr.  Eounds,  do  you?" 

I  shake  my  head  decidedly. 


8  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  But  Jane  does." 

Jane  is  my  eldest  daughter.  Jane,  Ida,  and  my 
wife  comprise  my  family. 

"  Jane  does  !  "  I  exclaim  ;  "  and  since  when  has 
this  gone  on  ?  " 

"  For  a  long  while." 

"  But  I  never  knew  anything  about  it." 

"  If  you  took  time  to  see  all  that  is  going  on  in 
this  building,  you  would  have  precious  little  time 
to  work  on  your  opera." 

"  I  don't  note  much  else,  that 's  a  fact." 

Ida  smiles. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  pun.  I  often  think  that  I 
am  a  very  selfish  old  man.  I  would  have  given 
the  opera  up  long  ago,  if  I  didn't  feel  that  the 
only  hope  of  our  family  lay  in  it." 

"  There 's  not  a  selfish  hair  on  your  head,"  she 
affirms  stoutly. 

I  rub  my  hand  over  my  perfectly  bald  crown. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  says  she. 

Ida  is  silent  for  a  minute ;  I  know  that  she  is 
thinking  of  something  serious  to  say.  I  wait  pa- 
tiently. 

"  Would  you  like  Jane  to  marry  Mr.  Rounds  ? " 
she  asks,  her  eyes  resting  ruefully  on  mine. 

"  Eh  ?     Has  it  gone  that  far  ?  " 

"For  all  that  I  know.  Jane  seems  to  take  it 
seriously  enough." 

"  Well,  Rounds  is  a  hard-working  man  ;  and  I 
guess  as  things  run  here  he  is  well-to-do.  He  is 
sober  and  steady  as  a  clock,  and  he  goes  to  church 
every  Sunday." 


AN  EVENING  AT  HOME  9 

"  But  he  is  hard  and  mean.  He  takes  awful 
advantage  of  poor  Vogel's  vice." 

"  Yes,  but  if  I  had  been  hard  and  mean,  mother 
would  n't  have  to  slave  her  life  away ;  you  would  n't 
have  to  sew  until  your  eyes  get  as  red  as  a  heated 
needle ;  and  Jane  would  n't  have  to  stand  on  her 
feet  all  day  at  the  department  store  ;  and  I  should  n't 
have  to  chase  this  will-o'-the-wisp  of  an  opera 
every  night  after  working  hard  all  day." 

"  I  would  rather  sew  until  my  fingers  ache  than 
have  you  grow  rich  by  being  mean  and  hard  and 
always  on  the  lookout  to  take  advantage  of  the 
weak  and  the  childish." 

"  Bless  you  for  that,  Ida  deary  ;  but  does  Jane 
feel  the  same  way?  She  seems  dissatisfied  with 
her  lot.  I  heard  her  complain  to  her  mother  the 
other  night." 

"  Yes,  she  would  rather  have  you  rich  and  mean 
than  poor  and  kind,  as  you  are." 

"  So  you  see,  Ida,  that  I  have  no  right  to  con- 
demn her  to  lead  a  life  of  poverty  when  she  has  a 
fair  chance  to  change  it." 

"  But  she  does  n't  love  him,  and  I  could  n't 
marry  a  man  that  I  did  n't  love ;  I  could  never 
bring  myself  to  do  it." 

"  I  would  n't  have  you  otherwise,  and  I  wish 
that  Jane  were  like  you,  but  she  isn't.  Jane  is 
worldly,  she  can  only  be  happy  with  money,  and  I 
have  no  right  to  force  her  to  lead  a  life  —  well,  a 
life  like  I  have  given  your  mother.  Rounds  is  n't 
the  man  that  I  should  choose,  but  he  may  make 
her  a  good  home ;  although  he  may  be  ever  so 
hard  and  cruel." 


10  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  Would  you  want  me  to  marry  a  bad  man  for 
a  good  home,  father  ?  " 

"I  am  too  poor  to  spare  you  for  the  richest 
man  on  earth." 

"  But  you  don't  answer  my  question." 

"I  —  I  —  I  wish  you  to  be  happy,  Ida,"  I  fal- 
ter ;  "  God  only  knows  how  I  yearn  for  your  hap- 
piness." 

"  I  know  too,"  answers  she. 

I  run  my  hands  over  her  brown  hair  caressingly, 
drawing  her  head  to  my  chest ;  there  is  a  bit  of 
moisture  in  my  eye  which  I  prefer  that  she  should 
not  see.  I  am  a  hero  to  my  daughter  if  not  to 
v  my  valet ;  this  is  some  consolation  for  not  having 
a  valet  and  —  for  not  being  a  hero. 

"  Come,  child,  it 's  time  to  go  to  bed ;  it 's  a 
shame  to  stay  up  so  late."  I  walk  over  to  the 
front  window  to  draw  the  shades  and  catch  the 
bolts.  Even  those  who  dwell  in  the  third  story  of 
a  tenement  feel  that  they  are  not  too  poor  to  have 
something  worth  the  effort  of  somebody  who  is 
still  poorer  to  steal. 

Across  the  street  is  another  tenement  just  like 
ours  —  the  one  building  might  constantly  be  mis- 
taken for  the  other  did  not  Malachy's  saloon  oc- 
cupy its  first  floor  and  mark  the  difference. 

Vogel  is  over  at  Malachy's,  half  maddened  by 
the  vile  liquor.  He  dances  about  and  screams  like 
an  ecstatic  dervish.  He  harangues  incoherently 
against  an  unjust  social  system  that  will  not  let  a 
willing  man  work.  Even  if  his  harangue  were 
coherent  few  could  understand  him;  for  at  such 


AN  EVENING  AT  HOME  11 

times  he  prefers  his  good  German  to  his  broken 
English.  Then  he  runs  whining  into  a  corner  and 
shrinks  down,  and  sobs  pitifully :  "  For  God's  sake, 
save  me  from  my  shadow.  It  wants  to  kill  me ;  it 
wants  to  choke  me  to  death ;  its  hands  are  clutch- 
ing my  throat.  Save  me !  save  me !  " 

Later  Malachy  sends  his  bartender  for  Vogel's 
son,  who  is  the  one  person  in  the  world  with  the 
power  to  quiet  the  poor,  tortured  wretch.  Adolph 
comes  running  over  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  an  af- 
frighted expression  on  his  face,  as  if  he  had  been 
called  upon  to  look  at  a  ghost  from  which  he  had 
barely  escaped  once.  But  the  moment  he  enters 
the  dram-shop  and  touches  his  father  on  the  shoul- 
der gently  and  says  to  him,  "Vaterchen,  Yater- 
chen,"  the  inebriate  throws  his  arm  around  his 
son's  neck  and  bursts  into  maudlin  tears  and  sobs : 
"  Adolphchen,  Adolphchen,  nihm  mich  nach  Haus." 
And  with  his  father  clinging  to  his  neck,  the  son 
climbs  up  the  weary  flights  that  lead  to  their 
rooms. 

Whilst  I  stood  musing  at  the  window,  Ida  went 
into  the  hall  to  make  sure  that  the  lamp  had  not 
been  left  burning.  She  came  rushing  back,  look- 
ing distraught,  trembling  like  a  drop  of  water 
about  to  fall  from  the  eaves  of  a  roof. 

"What's  the  matter,"  asked  I.  "Did  the 
blacksmith  on  the  second  speak  to  you  again  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  Adolph  just  passed  me  in  the  hall 
carrying  his  drunken  father  up  the  stairs.  He  was 
speaking  to  him  so  tenderly,  as  if  his  father  were 
a  sick  child;  then  he  saw  me  and  he  looked  so 


12  POOR  PEOPLE 

ashamed  and  humiliated  —  I  never  saw  anybody 
look  like  that.  Poor  young  fellow,  how  I  pity 
him!" 

I  soothed  her  as  best  I  could.  "  It 's  a  terrible 
thing.  What  a  load  for  a  boy  like  that  to  carry. 
No  wonder  he  always  seems  so  depressed  and  un- 
sociable. I  have  always  felt  sorry  for  Adolph ; 
but  whenever  I  try  to  speak  to  him,  he  looks  at 
me  as  if  to  say,  'Yes,  my  father  is  a  drunkard 
and  you  know  it.  Sorry  for  me,  are  n't  you  ? ' 
And  he  answers  me  curtly,  and  goes  on." 

"  He  is  so  ugly,"  remarks  Ida,  her  fright  entirely 
gone ;  "  he  always  looks  as  if  he  had  been  pressed 
between  the  covers  of  a  heavy  book,  and  all  the 
life  and  energy  squeezed  out  of  him;  but  he  really 
was  beautiful  for  that  moment." 

"  As  if  he  were  expressing  the  noblest  thought 
of  the  great  book  into  which  he  had  been  pressed," 
suggested  I. 

Ida  smiles  in  assent. 

Adolph  carrying  his  father  up  the  flights  of 
<  tenement  stairs  is  the  abstract  and  brief  chronicle 
of  poverty  trying  to  mount  with  the  load  of  liquor 
on  its  back. 


CHAPTER  II 

A   DAY  WITH   THE  VOGELS 

ADOLPH  VOGEL  arises  early.  It  is  no  hope  of 
catching  the  worm  which  makes  him  the  early  bird. 
His  frail  body  demands  eight  hours'  sleep,  but  his 
over-active  mind  gives  him  but  six.  On  a  work- 
bench in  the  corner  of  the  bare  room,  near  the 
window,  was  a  vise,  a  round  glass  case,  and  the 
ordinary  kit  of  tools  which  the  watchmaker  uses. 
He  skewered  a  glass  to  his  eye  and  started  on  the 
repair  of  a  watch  that  was  large  enough  in  truth 
to  do  duty  for  a  clock.  It  belonged  to  Freytag, 
the  butcher. 

At  seven  he  awoke  his  father.  The  old  man 
rubbed  his  eyes  bedazzlingly. 

"  Come,  father,"  said  he,  "  I  am  going  to  get 
breakfast  now.  Remember  that  you  got  a  postal 
from  Small  yesterday  to  come  down  to-day." 

A  half  hour  later  Vogel  gathered  his  tools  and 
was  ready  to  start.  "  Adolphchen,"  he  remarked  in 
German  (the  pair  always  spoke  in  German  when 
together), "  I  am  glad  that  you  called  me.  You  are 
a  good  son.  Small  has  a  grand  work  for  me  to  do  ; 
the  carving  of  the  biggest  oak  mantel  in  the  city. 
You  will  see  how  grand  I  shall  make  it.  When 
I  am  done  Small  will  come  up  to  me  and  say : 


14  POOR  PEOPLE 

*  Vogel  you  are  an  artist,  the  first  artist  in  the  city 
—  in  the  world.  Those  roses  look  as  if  they  were 
painted  by  Michael  Angelo.  You  should  have 
been'"  — 

"  You  had  better  start  now,  father ;  it  is  late," 
and  Adolph  resumed  his  repairing  impatiently. 
He  had  heard  that  vainglorious  speech  so  many 
times  that  he  knew  it  by  heart. 

The  detached  parts  of  the  butcher's  watch  lay 
under  the  "  shade,"  and  Adolph  was  at  work  in 
earnest  when  an  unexpected  noise  attracted  his 
attention  and  he  turned  around.  There  stood  his 
father,  breathing  hard,  an  expression  of  fear  star- 
ing from  his  face,  his  carpet-bag  hanging  limply  in 
his  hand. 

The  son's  look  was  one  of  inquiry  rather  than 
surprise.  "  And  what  is  it  now  ?  "  he  asked  gen- 
tly. 

"  Adolphchen,  Adolphchen,  I  would  n't  go  to 
work  to-day,  not  for  the  world,  not  to  carve  a  side- 
board for  the  kaiser.  A  black  dog  chased  me  in 
the  street,  and  a  minute  afterwards  I  saw  a  black 
cat — the  worst  signs  that  there  are.  If  I  go  to 
work  to-day  it  means  that  I  shall  fall  off  a  ladder 
and  break  my  neck.  Not  for  the  world,  not  for  the 
world."  Dejectedly  the  old  man  took  his  seat  in 
the  corner  of  the  room,  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
long  white  hands.  "  Ach,  and  that  fine  mantel  — 
the  largest  in  the  city !  Why  should  the  cat  and 
dog  not  have  waited  a  day  ?  Ach !  " 

Adolph  was  a  wise  son  —  he  knew  his  father. 
He  lost  no  time  by  arguing  that  such  superstitions 


A  DAY  WITH  THE  VOGELS  15 

were  foolish  and  ill-grounded ;  and  paying  no  at- 
tention to  his  elder's  fruitless  quarrel  with  the 
sable  hue  of  fate's  signs  and  portents  he  bent  over 
his  repairing.  Adolph's  only  superstition  was  that 
he  had  no  superstitions.  The  watchmaker  heard 
a  step  on  the  stairs  ;  he  knew  to  whom  it  belonged. 
Undoubtedly  Kounds  the  carpenter  had  seen  Vogel 
return  from  work  with  a  celerity  greater  than  he 
had  started. 

With  a  loud  knock  Eounds  entered.  He  was 
a  good-looking  man ;  short  but  well-built,  and  of 
a  florid  complexion.  He  dressed  neatly  and  care- 
fully like  one  who  has  concluded  that  dress  is  an 
aid  to  success  in  life ;  and  Eounds's  appearance  and 
bearing  were  those  of  a  man  who  has  determined 
on  success.  He  carried  himself  with  the  hauteur 
of  a  military  man.  His  clothes  were  all  made  by 
Bernheim,  who  has  rooms  on  the  first  back ;  and 
whenever  Eounds  made  a  purchase,  there  was  such 
a  "  Jewing  down "  on  the  one  side  and  such  a 
"  Christianing  up  "  on  the  other  that  it  seemed  as 
if  a  bargain  would  never  be  struck. 

"  Morning,"  said  the  carpenter  to  the  watch- 
maker. The  watchmaker  gave  no  response  —  he 
showed  his  respect  for  Eounds  by  preserving  per- 
fect silence  whenever  he  spoke. 

"Well,  old  man"  — 

"  Herr  Vogel,  pleese." 

"Well,  Herr  Vogel,  I  see  that  you're  not  at 
work  this  morning." 

"  What  good  eyes  some  people  have  —  for  a 
bargain,"  came  from  the  watchmaker's  bench. 


16  POOR  PEOPLE 

The  florid  patches  on  Rounds' s  cheeks  became 
redder;  but  he  did  not  retort.  If  it  could  be 
avoided  he  preferred  not  to  converse  with  this  bit- 
ter young  man. 

"  I  vould  not  vork  for  de  vorld  to-day,  Meester 
Rounds.  A  black  dog  followed  me,  a  black  cat 
after.  Dat  is  de  same  als  to  say  dat  if  I  vork  I 
falls  from  a  ladder  off.  Und  I  hav  a  job  Small 
mit  to  make  de  greatest  mantel  in  de  city.  Vat 
can  I  do  ?  I  tell  mein  sohn  de  cat  und  de  dog 
dey  should  not  come  me  against  to-day.  It  vas 
alvays  mein  luck  to  get  vork  on  de  days  ven  I  f ore- 
varnings  hav." 

"  It 's  a  pity,  Herr  Vogel,  that  a  great  artist  like 
you  should  be  troubled  by  such  things.  Come, 
we'll  go  across  the  street  and  have  a  drink." 

Adolph  swung  on  his  chair  and  stared  at  Rounds ; 
then  he  said  to  his  father  :  "  You  '11  get  half  drunk 
at  Malachy's,  and  go  to  work  for  this  rascal; 
you  '11  surely  fall  off  a  ladder  if  you  do." 

Rounds's  cheeks  glowed.  "  See  here,  young  man, 
if  you  have  anything  to  say  against  me,  I  wish 
that  you  would  say  it  in  English." 

"  Unfortunately  I  can't  express  myself  so  well 
in  English ;  I  can  translate  it,  though,  if  you  want 
to  hear  no  good  of  yourself.  I  object  to  my  father 
working  for  you  at  the  wages  you  pay  —  that 's 
one  of  the  things  that  I  generally  say  in  German 
when  you  are  here.  The  other  things  —  well,  that 's 
just  where  my  English  fails  me." 

He  arose  from  his  seat,  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  bench;  his  hands  in  his  pockets 5  his  small 


A  DAY  WITH  THE  VOGELS  17 

eyes  glaring  through  his  thick,  heavy  glasses ;  over 
his  swarthy  cheeks  something  like  color  pushed  its 
way. 

"  Adolphchen,"  pleaded  his  father  softly,  "  hav 
no  quarrel  our  neighbor  mit.  I  vill  be  right  back  ; 
I  go  just  for  von  drink." 

"  See  here,  young  man,  just  to  show  you  I  don't 
bear  a  grudge,  I'll  let  you  mend  my  watch.  I 
broke  the  mainspring  yesterday.  How  much  do 
you  charge  for  cleaning,  oiling,  and  repairing  ?  " 
Rounds  was  ever  ready  to  kill  two  birds  with  one 
stone,  providing  the  wear  and  tear  on  the  stone 
were  no  greater. 

"  I  get  seventy-five  cents,"  replied  Adolph. 

"  Well,  Reismer  down  here  gets  but  fifty." 

"  I  knew  that  was  coming.  He  can  afford  to 
work  cheaper.  He  's  a  poorer  workman.  Besides, 
I  don't  want  to  do  your  work ;  you  'd  be  afraid  that 
I  stole  a  second  from  the  dial." 

The  florid  patches  turned  to  flame.  The  way 
he  counted  time  in  his  shop  was  a  standing  joke 
in  the  tenement.  "  You  're  altogether  too  inde- 
pendent for  a  poor  man." 

"  It 's  only  the  rich  who  can't  afford  pride,"  re- 
torted the  little  watchmaker. 

Vogel  went  through  the  process  of  "  washing 
his  hands  with  invisible  soap  in  imperceptible 
water,"  fearful  lest  his  son's  sharp  tongue  cost  him 
a  drink  in  the  end.  "  Adolphchen,"  he  murmured 
pleadingly. 

Vogel  started  towards  the  door,  Rounds  fol- 
lowed, pausing  to  say:  "I'd  like  to  have  you 


18  POOR  PEOPLE 

working  for  me  a  week ;  I  'd  teach  you  a  tiling  or 
two." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  can't  work  for  God  and  the 
devil  at  the  same  time." 

So  it  always  ended,  Vogel  going  forth  to  be 
robbed  and  browbeaten  and  cozened  by  this  ava- 
ricious tradesman ;  Adolph  remaining  behind,  the 
victor  in  so  far  as  the  crossing  of  words  went,  but 
always  hopeless  at  his  own  helplessness. 

"  You  see,"  explained  Vogel  to  Rounds,  on  the 
way  out,  "  de  boy  vas  Jung  yet ;  I  alvays  tell  him 
to  be  hoflich  —  vat  you  calls  in  English  polite." 

"  You  can't  tell  him  that  too  often,"  snapped  he, 
smarting  still  from  the  last  retort. 

"  I  vill  tell  him  again,  ven  ve  gets  back." 

They  stepped  into  the  saloon.  The  carpenter 
ordered  a  cigar  for  himself  (which  he  did  not 
smoke ;  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  to  kill  another  bird 
later  on),  and  whisky  for  Vogel.  The  cabinet- 
maker would  have  preferred  pure  alcohol ;  but  the 
carpenter  restrained  him  from  indulging  his  pre- 
ference. 

"  I  tell  you,  Vogel,"  spake  he,  "  you  're  an  artist 
and  no  mistake.  I  often  wonder  how  you  can 
carve  as  you  do.  Roses  and  vines  don't  grow  any 
better." 

Vogel  warmed  up  to  the  subject :  "  Vas  it  not 
so  ?  I  often  tells  mein  sohn  vat  great  dings  I  do, 
but  de  boy  vas  Jung  yet ;  he  don't  understand." 

From  his  glass  the  old  man  let  three  drops  fall 
on  the  floor.  "  Dat  vill  drive  de  schadows  von  de 
black  dog  und  de  cat  avay." 


A  DAY  WITH  THE  VOGELS  19 

Even  Rounds  could  not  check  the  risible  tension 
of  his  muscles.  Vogel  was  quick  to  notice  it. 

"  Vy  you  laugh?  You  dink  dat  I  vas  supersti- 
tious ;  but  I  vas  not.  I  believe  only  in  de  fore- 
varning  vat  dings  giv ;  dey  vas  signs." 

Rounds  gained  his  gravity.  "That's  what  I 
believe  in,  Vogel. " 

"Veil,  vas  dat  superstition?" 

The  carpenter  shook  his  head ;  and  Vogel,  seem- 
ingly satisfied,  went  on  with  his  own  laudation,  his 
praise  becoming  more  and  more  extravagant  with 
every  glass.  "  Schmall  calls  me  de  Michael  An- 
gelo  in  vood ;  dink  of  dat,  de  Michael  Angelo  in 
vood !  " 

On  and  on  went  the  fatuous,  childish,  foolish  old 
man,  mixing  his  German  and  English,  proclaiming 
his  greatness,  tearing  his  hair ;  on  and  on  until  he 
became  ecstatic  and  his  eyes  flared  and  opened  as 
if  they  would  take  in  the  universe,  becoming  in- 
spired by  considering  himself  and  his  own  great- 
ness ;  weeping  because  the  son,  whom  he  loved, 
and  the  world  could  not  see  it. 

"  I  vas  Goethe,  I  vas  Michael  Angelo ;  I  do  mit 
vood  vat  dey  do  poetry  und  paint  mit.  I  make 
you  a  picture,  a  poem  in  vood.  See,  giv  me  paper 
und  a  pen.  You  hav  no  pen  ?  Veil,  a  pencil  vill 
do.  I  hav  dis  dreamed  a  long  time  for." 

Dexterously  his  trembling  hand  circled  and 
squared  on  the  paper ;  the  carpenter  watched  and 
his  eyes  became  as  a  miser's  about  to  grasp  the 
gold  another  is  preparing  to  pay  him. 

"What's  that,  Vogel;  what's  that?  Hush, 
not  so  loud,  man ;  don't  let  Malachy  hear." 


20  POOR  PEOPLE 

He  clutched  the  paper  to  tear  the  last  design 
into  shreds. 

"  Come,  Vogel,  do  me  the  honor,  let  me  keep  it ; 
just  to  show  people  that  I  am  the  friend  of  such  a 
great  artist." 

"  Veil,  ven  you  vant ;  but  dat  vas  nothings.  I 
make  you  a  schair  vat  de  vorld  hav  never  seen 
like.  I  vas  de  Martin,  de  Buhl  von  America.  I 
show  you  dat  I  vas  greater  den  dey." 

And  he  went  on  and  on,  soaring  to  the  danger- 
ous heights  of  a  semi-divine  madness,  drinking  just 
enough  to  goad  his  intellect,  essentially  that  of  the 
poet  and  capable  of  inspiration,  into  a  frenzy  that 
was  fine  ;  where  another  drop  would  have  pitched 
him  headlong  from  the  most  towering  point  of  his 
mounting  fancy  down  to  the  floor  in  a  drunken 
stupor.  And  the  swifter  and  faster  his  wild  intel- 
lect revolved  the  louder  did  he  proclaim  his  own 
excellence,  —  the  "  I "  dominating  his  disconnected 
conversation  as  his  large  head  dominated  his  shriv- 
eled body  ;  but  his  pencil  moved  with  the  velocity 
of  his  enraptured  thought,  never  ceasing  for  the 
space  of  a  second,  swinging  in  graceful  curves, 
uniting  line  and  curve  in  combinations  that  were 
new,  that  dovetailed  into  each  other  so  impercep- 
tibly and  naturally,  never  breaking  into  tangents, 
that  the  eye  followed  his  drawings  as  easily  as  the 
foot  goes  up  an  oft  traveled  path. 

And  on  and  on,  higher  and  higher,  scaled  his 
giddy  intellect,  leaving  all  earth  behind  it,  and 
floating  into  the  ether  of  perfect  form ;  his  stub  of 
a  pencil  dropping  the  precious  records  of  the  in- 


A  DAY  WITH  THE  VOGELS  21 

spired  mind  into  the  greedy  hands  of  the  carpen- 
ter ;  tables,  delicate  as  tapestry  ;  chairs  in  the  like 
of  which  past  generations  never  sat ;  bibelots  of 
furniture  so  delicate  that  one  would  have  doubted 
the  possibility  of  putting  them  into  wood ;  bed- 
steads, sideboards,  mantels  —  the  most  prosaic  of 
things  running  through  the  mint  of  his  poesy  and 
issuing  with  the  stamp  that  would  make  them  pass 
current  wherever  poetry  is  recognized. 

Malachy  leaned  his  fat  arms,  supporting  his  still 
fatter  body,  on  the  bar,  yawning  and  running  his 
eye  over  the  lurid  pictures  of  a  criminological 
journal  —  he  had  heard  drunkards  talk  before,  and 
"  a  drunk  "  was  "  a  drunk  "  to  the  discriminative 
judgment  of  Malachy.  Kounds  was  all  eyes  and 
ears  —  one  big  eye  and  one  big  ear  in  very  fact, 
with  a  grasping  palm  protuding  between.  Not  a 
measurement,  not  a  figure,  not  the  name  of  a  wood, 
not  the  most  unimportant  inlay  or  fretting  or  carv- 
ing of  all  the  million  and  one  of  such  details  that 
came  dripping  from  the  fringes  of  Vogel's  sweep- 
ing fancy  escaped  him. 

A  drink  the  more  and  the  divinity  of  the  man 
was  extinct ;  his  eyes,  so  luminous  and  large  that 
they  seemed  ready  to  burst  into  flame,  became 
heavy  and  sodden  as  the  sod  itself,  leering,  sinking 
into  a  dull  point.  Exhausted,  burnt  out  from  the 
fire  of  his  own  brilliancy,  as  it  were,  his  head  sank 
on  his  breast  in  drunken  stupor.  The  Circe-cup 
had  transformed  this  chattering,  silly  old  man  into 
the  dreamer  of  divine  dreams,  then  into  the  beast. 
The  beautiful  inventions  that  had  moved  in  stately 


22  POOR  PEOPLE 

magnificence  through  his  now  besotted  intellect 
withdrew  as  if  ashamed  to  have  visited  a  place  so 
unseemly,  and  they  passed  out  of  his  existence  for- 
ever, not  even  remaining  as  a  memory.  He  had 
put  an  enemy  in  his  mouth  to  steal  his  brains ;  and 
Rounds  was  the  enriched  receiver  of  the  stolen 
goods. 

Vogel,  supported  by  Rounds,  tottered  across  the 
street,  up  the  stairs  and  into  his  room.  Adolph 
was  still  at  work;  he  arose  and  eyed  his  father 
with  an  expression  of  despair  that  was  more  than 
pathetic  as  it  wavered  between  pity  and  love. 
When  his  glance  reverted  to  Rounds,  his  face  be- 
came a  black  mask  impossible  to  penetrate. 

"See  here,  young  fellow,"  spoke  Rounds,  "I 
want  to  show  you  that  I  can  do  the  square  thing. 
I  treated  the  old  man  to  the  best,  and  I  never  had 
him  do  a  single  stroke  of  work."  There  was  an 
ugly  leer  on  the  carpenter's  face  that  might  have 
meant  almost  anything. 

Adolph  moved  an  armless  chair  forward  and  said 
politely  and  quietly,  "Sit  down,  Mr.  Rounds;  I 
have  a  word  to  say  to  you." 

Rounds  was  taken  aback.  He  scarcely  expected 
that  Adolph  would  turn  his  left  cheek  so  quickly. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Rounds,  I  look  like  a  fool,  but  I  am 
not  half  the  fool  I  look.  If  you  paid  my  father  in 
drink,  I  am  sensible  enough  to  know  that  he  paid 
you  in  kind.  How  he  paid  you  I  don't  know ; 
maybe  I  will  some  time  and  maybe  I  won't ;  but 
that  isn't  what  I  started  out  to  tell  you."  His 
voice  calm,  not  raising  a  semiquaver,  he  went  on : 


A  DAY  WITH  THE  VOGELS  23 

"  I  am  a  weak,  puny  man,  and  you  would  n't  feel  a 
blow  of  mine  any  more  than  the  prick  of  a  pin,  or 
you  know  just  as  well  as  I  'm  telling  it  to  you,  that 
I  would  have  struck  you  long  ago,  and  struck 
hard." 

Rounds  started  to  speak,  flecking  a  speck  of  dust 
from  his  coat  with  an  air  that  plainly  said,  "  What 
an  atmosphere  for  a  man  of  my  quality !  " 

"  One  minute,"  interrupted  Adolph ;  "  what  I 
started  to  say  is  this  :  If  you  ever  come  into  this 
room  again,  if  you  ever  take  that  dear,  unfortunate 
father  of  mine  over  to  Malachy's  again  —  I  —  I  — 
well,  I  won't  be  responsible  for  what  I  do.  You 
understand.  Now  go  !  " 

Sounds  feared  the  moral  strength  of  this  weak- 
ling more  than  the  physical  strength  of  a  giant,  and 
because  he  stood  in  that  nameless  dread,  he  hated 
him.  "  I  '11  have  my  foot  on  this  young  viper's 
neck  before  I  'm  through  with  him,"  he  muttered, 
going  down  the  stairs. 

Adolph  locked  the  door;  then  he  covered  his 
father  with  a  torn  quilt,  as  a  mother  might  cover 
a  child  that  has  tossed  the  bed-clothing  aside  in 
the  restlessness  of  sleep.  The  mask  fell  from  the 
ugly  face,  and  his  glance  became  inexpressibly  ten- 
der as  he  put  a  wet  cloth  on  the  feverish  brow. 
He  felt  the  inclination  to  kneel  on  the  carpetless 
floor  and  kiss  the  drunkard's  hand. 

It  was  not  to  his  father  that  he  would  have 
knelt ;  it  was  not  his  father's  hand  that  he  kissed 
in  thought ;  he  bowed  before  the  spirit  of  genius 
shackled  by  drink  and  poverty,  and  his  kiss  was 
pressed  on  the  suffering  it  symbolized. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  WHITER  OF  PLAYS 

IT  was  past  three  when  Freytag  called  for  his 
watch.  Not  wishing  the  butcher  to  see  his  father's 
shame,  the  watchmaker  came  into  the  hall  with  his 
patron's  timepiece.  Even  in  the  darkness,  the 
butcher  noticed  the  sallowness  of  Adolph's  com- 
plexion. Freytag  attributed  all  troubles  to  a  lack 
of  proper  nourishment,  and  in  so  far  as  the  tene- 
y  ment  was  concerned  Freytag  was  not  a  long  way 
from  right. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  and  have  a  meal  with 
us  ?  "  he  asked.  The  good-hearted  Freytag  was 
fond  of  asking  the  hungry  to  his  table.  Adolph 
knew  this,  and  that  is  why  he  never  went,  although 
the  savory  smell  of  the  roast,  floating  from  the 
kitchen  into  the  hallway,  tempted  his  pride,  more 
times  than  one,  to  listen  to  his  hunger. 

"  I  have  invited  you  often,  but  you  never  come." 

The  mask  fell  over  the  face  just  about  to  shine 
with  gratitude,  and  he  answered  coldly  enough, 
"  I  've  been  so  busy,  Mr.  Freytag." 

"  I  can't  make  that  young  man  out,"  thought 
the  butcher  ;  "  he  's  proud  as  a  peacock  and  poor 
as  a  church  mouse." 

At  dusk  Adolph  put  his  work  to  one  side  and 


THE  WRITER  OF  PLAYS  25 

started  out  for  supper,  —  the  second  meal  of  the 
day.  At  times  he  went  without  eating  rather  than 
cook  his  own  food ;  happily  Freytag,  who  always 
paid  cash  and  gloried  in  it,  had  given  him  the 
means  wherewith  to  indulge  his  nice  taste. 

He  passed  a  florist's  shop  on  the  avenue,  and  the 
sight  of  the  roses  in  the  window  seemed  to  recall 
something  forgotten  to  his  mind.  "  It 's  the  eigh- 
teenth," he  murmured ;  "I  came  nearly  forgetting 
it."  He  purchased  a  rose,  a  carnation,  a  sprig  of 
mignonette,  and  a  few  sprays  of  forget-me-not ;  two 
fronds  of  fern  were  thrown  into  the  bargain. 

It  was  seven  and  past  when  he  returned  into  the 
squalor  and  depressing  barrenness  of  his  rooms. 
He  lit  the  lamp,  and  wired  the  flowers  to  the  cor- 
ners of  a  frame  that  held  the  portrait  of  a  middle- 
aged  woman  whose  face  showed  more  sweetness  and 
gentleness  than  strength  of  character.  The  por- 
trait was  that  of  his  dead  mother ;  the  eighteenth 
of  the  month  of  February  was  the  anniversary  of 
her  birth.  He  adored  the  memory  of  the  woman 
who  had  suffered  much  through  his  father's  vice, 
who  had  had  little  or  no  pleasure  in  her  life,  but 
who  had  never  complained.  To  never  complain 
the  son  thought  the  highest  of  all  human  qualities. 

He  sat  lost  in  reverie  for  a  while,  then  he  tossed 
his  head  as  if  all  such  reverie  were  useless,  and  he 
removed  from  under  the  bench  a  small  stagelike 
arrangement  on  which  stood  a  number  of  wooden 
marionettes.  He  moved  the  figures  from  one  place 
to  another,  and  stood  them  in  every  conceivable 
position.  Finally  the  situation  seemed  to  satisfy 


26  POOR  PEOPLE 

him,  for  he  left  the  puppets  to  note  the  result  of 
their  arrangement  on  a  sheet  of  loose  manuscript 
which  he  selected  from  the  pile  that  lay  on  the 
bench  in  scattered  confusion  with  his  tools. 

It  must  have  been  about  this  time  that  I  said 
to  my  daughter :  "  Ida,  I  am  going  to  pay  a  visit 
to  that  young  man  upstairs." 

"  Do,  father,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  just  heard  him 
go  up,  and  you  are  sure  to  find  him." 

So  I  started  to  perform  the  duty  that  I  had  long 
deferred. 

"Ah,  it's  Mr.  Wilson,"  said  Adolph,  holding 
the  door  half  open,  as  if  undecided  whether  or  not 
to  let  me  in.  Despite  himself,  I  determined  to 
know  that  young  man.  For  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  left  my  timidness  at  home  when  I  went  out. 

"  I  came  to  pay  you  a  visit." 

"  Quite  unusual  for  any  one  to  even  pay  me  that 
much ;  "  and  the  door  did  not  move  an  inch. 

"  I  have  been  meaning  to  call  on  you  for  a  long 
time,"  quoth  I,  "  but  I  desired  to  visit  all  of  my 
neighbors,  and  I  began  at  the  bottom  and  worked 
up." 

"  Taking  in  the  aristocrats  first,"  he  ventured. 
In  a  tenement  the  higher  up  you  go,  the  lower  you 
are  from  a  social  point  of  view. 

He  was  anything  but  encouraging.  I  had  half  a 
mind  to  turn  back ;  but  the  other  half  of  my  mind, 
which  proved  the  stronger,  insisted  upon  my  going 
forward.  "  I  live  just  below  you — in  more  senses 
than  one,"  I  added  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Well,  come  in ;  I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  to  be  sure, 


THE  WRITER  OF  PLAYS  27 

but  my  father  is  asleep,  and  the  room  is  in  terrible 
disorder,  and  I  've  "  — 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that  —  I  'm  not  a  woman," 
and  I  stepped  in  before  he  had  a  chance  to  rescind. 

"  I  believe  you  are  a  watchmaker,"  I  began. 
There  was  a  sign  over  the  hall  door,  "  Adolph 
Vogel,  Watch  Maker." 

The  mask  did  not  fall  from  the  face;  on  the 
contrary,  it  drew  tighter.  "I  have  been  told  by 
some  of  my  customers  that  I  am  a  watchmaker ; 
others  don't  think  so." 

This  young  man  actually  makes  me  uncomfort- 
able ;  I  wish  that  I  could  make  him  talk  and  drop 
his  mask.  I  noticed  the  pile  of  books  and  the 
manuscript ;  next,  my  eye  caught  the  marionettes 
and  the  stage.  I  was  determined  to  make  him 
talk. 

"  Pardon  me,  I  don't  wish  to  be  inquisitive,  but 
do  you  mind  telling  me  what  you  use  that  small 
theatre  for?" 

"  Certainly  not ;  I  use  it  for  a  small  theatre." 

His  hands  slip  down  in  the  depths  of  his  faded 
brown  trousers ;  his  chair  is  tipped  back ;  his  eyes 
glare  through  his  thick,  heavy  glasses.  I  never 
had  anybody  look  at  me  like  that.  His  eyes  bore 
through  you  like  augers.  If  I  have  a  soul  he  will 
certainly  penetrate  it. 

"  You  will  probably  think  me  inquisitive ;  but 
then  you  know  I  am  old,  and  all  old  people  are 
inquisitive." 

"I  have  always  heard  that  old  people  are  in- 
quisitive, but  I  hope  that  it  is  n't  so." 


28  POOR  PEOPLE 

I  haven't  given  it  up  yet.  I  shall  make  one 
more  attempt.  How  those  eyes  keep  boring,  bor- 
ing !  I  know  what  people  mean  now  when  they 
speak  of  looking  through  a  stone.  This  fellow 
can  see  through  a  wall.  How  ugly  he  is  and  how 
dark!  Such  a  thin  neck  and  such  a  big  head! 
One  might  think  that  when  his  head  shakes  his 
neck  might  break  in  two.  I  wonder  if  he  crawled 
out  of  a  bandbox,  a  small  narrow  one  with  no 
breathing  holes  in  the  cover.  Perhaps  he  would 
like  to  crawl  back  again.  What  high  cheekbones 
and  what  thick  lips !  Nose  CaBsarian.  His  body 
would  be  sport  for  a  zephyr ;  his  face  defies  all  the 
winds  of  the  seas.  But  I  forget ;  I  am  expected 
to  say  something  or  leave. 

"  I  am  a  writer  myself  —  that  is  —  in  a  way. 
I  compose  operas ;  not  for  a  business,  you  know ; 
but  during  my  leisure." 

"  Is  that  so !  " 

I  have  touched  the  right  chord;  watch  that 
mask  drop ! 

"  Yes,  I  am  at  work  on  an  opera  now  —  that  is, 
the  score  of  one.  I  have  been  busy  over  it  for 
years." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  overmuch  about  music. 
My  tastes  run  in  a  different  direction;  I  write 
plays." 

"  If  you  consider  it  rightly,  there  is  a  great 
resemblance  between  an  opera  and  a  play." 

The  large  head  shook  on  the  thin  neck.  "  I  fail 
to  see  it." 

"  They  are  both  hard  to  write,"  I  went  on ;  "  it 's 


THE  WRITER  OF  PLAYS  29 

difficult  to  find  a  manager  for  either.  Savages 
hold  the  opera  and  the  drama  in  the  same  esteem. 
Bad  operas  and  bad  plays  never  bore  those  who 
never  listen  to  either." 

He  smiled  faintly ;  I  believe  that  he  has  never 
laughed  aloud  in  his  whole  life.  "  I  have  often 
heard  you  play  on  your  flute ;  but  of  course  I  could 
no  more  judge  from  it  that  you  were  writing  an 
opera  than  I  could  conclude  that  the  Swedish  fam- 
ily on  the  second  was  writing  an  operetta  because 
they  play  on  the  accordion.  How  little  do  we 
know,  after  all,  of  what  is  going  on  below  us." 

"How  little  do  we  know  of  what  is  going  on 
above  us." 

"  One  half  of  a  tenement  never  knows  how  the 
other  half  is  trying  to  live,"  he  remarked. 

"  I  presume,"  I  hesitated,  "  that  you  dislike  the 
mending  of  watches  as  much  as  I  do  the  selling  of 
sheet-music  from  behind  my  counter  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  drama  is  the  only  thing  that  I  care 
anything  about ;  but  then,  one  must  live.  I  used 
to  be  an  actor  after  a  fashion." 

"  And  you  dropped  it  for  watchmaking  ?  " 

A  slow  shake  of  the  head.  The  mask  tightens, 
then  it  loosens  a  bit. 

"No,  I  had  a  serious  throat  trouble;  and  the 
doctors  made  me  give  up  my  position." 

I  learned  from  him  long  afterwards  —  just  as  in 
the  far  future,  when  we  grew  firm  friends,  he  re- 
lated many  of  the  incidents,  and,  taking  me  into 
his  intimate  confidence,  disclosed  the  secrets  of  his 
inner  life,  which  find  their  way  in  this  story  — 


30  POOR  PEOPLE 

that  it  was  liquor  which  reduced  this  reticent 
young  man  from  the  impersonating  of  character 
to  the  mending  of  watches ;  and  that  the  same  evil 
has  forced  him  to  mend  watches  in  the  tenement 
instead  of  working  regularly  in  a  shop. 

"  Mr.  Vogel,  have  you  ever  tried  to  dispose  of 
any  of  your  plays  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  ceased  trying.  The  trouble  is 
that  my  plays  are  too  fond  of  me ;  they  will  stay 
with  some  manager  for  the  visit  of  a  few  weeks  at 
most,  then  they  come  trotting  home  —  post  haste." 

"  Never  allow  yourself  to  grow  discouraged." 

"  I  have  had  that  same  advice  before." 

"  But  perhaps  not  from  one  who  has  had  as 
much  discouragement  in  life  as  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  does  make  a  difference,"  he  said,  his 
voice  growing  softer,  his  face  more  kindly. 

I  am  drawn  to  that  young  man  somehow;  he 
would  attract  people  did  he  not  choose  to  arm 
himself  with  a  non-magnetic  shield. 

There  came  that  pause  which  we  term  awkward. 
I  reached  out  for  my  hat. 

"Don't  hurry,"  said  he;  "I  am  very  glad  to 
have  you  here ;  it  was  kind  of  lonely  this  even- 
ing." 

"  If  you  were  lonely  I  am  happy  that  I  came ; 
although  I  must  confess,"  smiled  I,  "  that  if  you 
did  not  shut  the  door  in  my  face,  you  did  not  open 
it  wide  enough  for  my  nose  to  poke  inside." 

He  blushed  —  I  suppose  that  one  might  call  the 
faint  color  that  fringed  his  dark  cheeks  a  blush. 
"  You  see,  Mr.  Wilson,  tenement  people  are  so 


THE  WRITER  OF  PLAYS  31 

poor  that  all  most  of  them  have  is  the  affairs  of 
other  people." 

"  And  you  thought  me  that  poor  ?  " 

"  I  did,  and  I  beg  pardon." 

A  small  head  pushed  its  way  through  the  door. 
The  head  belongs  to  Mary,  the  eight-year  old 
daughter  of  Finnehan  the  blacksmith,  who  runs 
the  "Horse-Shoeing  Parlor"  a  block  away.  I 
conjecture  that  the  shop  is  styled  thus  euphoni- 
ously to  make  up  for  Finnehan's  lack  of  parlor  at 
home.  At  any  rate,  the  family  is  particularly 
proud  of  the  name. 

"  Pa  's  home,"  lisped  the  tot,  whose  face  is  at 
least  five  years  older  than  she. 

"And  crazy  drunk,"  whispers  Adolph  to  me. 
"  Come  in,  Mary,"  he  called  aloud. 

The  girl  was  disconcerted  by  my  presence,  and 
hiding  her  frowzy  head  in  Adolph's  lap,  she 
lisped :  — 

"  But  he  ith  n't  dwunk.  I  gueth  I  '11  go  down 
again." 

One  has  no  idea  how  precociously  proud  these 
little  folk  of  the  tenement  are.  I  arose  to  go,  try- 
ing to  explain  that  I  had  outstayed  my  intentions. 
He  accepted  my  invitation  to  call  on  us. 

Through  the  halls  resounded  the  cries  of  a 
beaten  woman.  Adolph  shut  the  door  that  the 
child  might  not  hear.  I  know  that  piteous  cry, 
and  I  shut  my  ears  to  it  ever  lest  my  heart  break 
from  aching  at  what  I  am  powerless  to  prevent. 

"I  am  going  to  stop  that,"  he  declared,  his 
voice  unsteady,  his  puny  fists  clenched. 


32  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  He  will  kill  you  at  a  blow,"  I  remonstrated. 

"  He  will  if  his  blow  strikes  me  ;  but  it  won't." 

With  uncertain  step  he  hurried  down  the  stairs. 
I  could  fairly  distinguish  his  heavy  breathing 
above  the  cries  of  the  swinged  woman.  I  stood  at 
our  door,  my  heart  beating  against  my  ribs  like  a 
hammer  on  an  anvil. 

Finnehan's  rooms  were  totally  dark.  The 
drunken  blacksmith  had  a  habit  of  flinging  the 
lighted  lamp  at  his  wife's  head,  and  she  took  good 
care  to  put  the  lamp  out  of  the  way  at  the  hour 
when  her  husband  generally  made  his  appearance. 

Adolph  pushed  the  door  open  gently  and  entered 
on  tiptoe. 

"  Who  's  there !  "  roared  Finnehan,  pushing  his 
wife  from  him  violently. 

No  answer. 

"  Who 's  there,  I  say,"  he  roared  again. 

The  great  bully  shuddered ;  he  stood  in  awe  of 
incorporeal  spirits,  although  the  bulkiest  of  bodies 
with  all  the  spirit  in  the  world  could  not  move 
him  an  inch.  He  feared  only  what  his  fists  could 
not  hurt.  If  his  stubbly  red  hair  could  have  stood 
on  end,  its  ends  would  have  outfretted  the  quills 
of  the  porcupine. 

A  sepulchral,  hollow  voice  filled  the  room  — 
Adolph  had  not  acted  the  ghost  in  Hamlet  for 
nothing.  "  I  am  the  ghost  of  Patrick  Doyle ;  I  bid 
thee  not  strike  that  woman  again." 

The  door  opened,  Adolph  glided  out  as  noise- 
lessly as  he  had  come  in. 

"  Light  the  lamp !     Light  the  lamp !  "  whined  a 


THE  WRITER  OF  PLAYS  33 

cowered,  nerveless  mass  of  bone  and  muscle.  The 
blacksmith's  wife  was  as  daunted  as  he;  like  a 
flickering  shadow  she  moved  about  the  room  in 
search  of  a  match.  From  her  weak  grasp  the 
chimney  fell  to  the  floor,  broken  into  pieces.  The 
crash  of  the  glass  made  the  wretch  purple  to  his 
very  teeth.  The  wife  fell  in  her  husband's  arms 
weeping  and  sobbing;  he  clung  to  her  desper- 
ately. 

I  was  still  standing  in  the  hall  when  Adolph 
pulled  himself  up  the  stairs,  strongly  resembling 
the  ghost  he  had  tried  to  represent. 

"Well?  "asked  I. 

"  He  will  not  beat  his  wife  any  more ;  not  for 
a  long  time  to  come,  at  least."  This  was  the  only 
explanation  he  chose  to  vouchsafe. 

Finnehan  had  murdered  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Doyle  years  ago  ;  his  plea  of  self-defense  had 
proved  valid,  and  on  that  ground  he  was  acquitted ; 
but  the  jury  that  sat  in  continual  session  on  the 
murderer's  conscience  refused  to  declare  the  verdict 
of  not  guilty.  From  the  blacksmith's  daughter 
Adolph  had  heard  time  and  again  that  when  her 
father  was  most  violent  he  feared  Doyle's  ghost 
most. 

Bounds  and  Adolph  were  both  students  of  human 
nature ;  they  were  both  quick  to  see  the  Achilles 
heel  in  everybody's  character ;  the  carpenter  pierced 
the  heel  for  purposes  of  gain ;  the  watchmaker  was 
loath  to  touch  it  save  for  purposes  of  good. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   LETTER   TO   THE   DEAD 

ADOLPH  found  Mary  playing  with  the  marion- 
ettes on  the  floor. 

"  So  you  came  up  here  to  sleep,  little  one  ?  "  and 
he  patted  the  hollow  cheek. 

"  Yeth,"  she  babbled,  without  looking  up  from 
the  figures  which  she  was  moving  across  the  stage, 
"  yeth,  pa 's  dwunk,  and  ma  senth  me  upthairs  to 
sleep.  Pa  ith  cwoss  when  he  ith  dwunk ;  he 
whips  evwybody ;  he  would  whip  a  politheman,  he 
would,  when  he  ith  dwunk.  But  ma  thaith  it  ain't 
him,  it  ith  the  dwink.  But  I  know  it  ith  pa,  I 
seen  him.  I  wish  he  would  n't  dwink.  Why  do 
he  dwink  ?  Your  pa  dwinks  too,  don't  he  ?  " 

He  lifted  the  child  on  his  knee,  and  tried  to 
turn  the  runnel  of  conversation  in  a  different  di- 
rection. He  had  talked  to.  his  mother  thus  in  his 
childhood  ;  and  Mary's  every  word  brought  pain- 
ful recollections  swarming  to  the  surface  of  his 
memory. 

"  What  were  you  playing  with  the  theatre  ?  " 

She  pointed  to  the  figures.  "I  wath  playing 
that  thith  wath  pa,  and  that  wath  ma,  and  that  one 
me ;  that  one  there  wath  you ;  them  two  wath  po- 
lithemen.  When  pa  hits  ma,  you  and  me  wuns  for 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DEAD  35 

the  polithemen,  and  they  makths  pa  stop.  But 
he  won't,  and  the  polithemen  takes  pa  to  the  tha- 
thion." 

Children  in  the  tenement  cry  but  little  ;  only  too 
early  in  life  do  they  learn  the  f ruitlessness  of  tears. 
Like  their  elders,  they  have  a  way  of  suffering  in 
silence  that  increases  their  suffering  to  agony  be- 
cause it  may  find  no  expression.  Children  in  the 
tenement  ?  There  are  no  children  in  the  tenement. 
The  tenement  crushes  out  childhood  and  leaves  but 
men  and  babes  ;  between  the  two  is  a  yawning  gap 
into  which  the  stunted  bodies  and  precocious  minds 
of  the  little  men  and  the  little  women  may  enter 
for  a  second  or  two ;  may  know  that  this  gap  is 
called  childhood,  that  the  gap  is  a  land  of  perfect 
happiness,  free  from  all  care  and  sorrow  which  is 
the  common  lot  of  their  little  manhood  and  woman- 
hood ;  but  if  their  feet  stray  there  for  this  second 
or  two,  poverty  and  misery  and  crime  shake  their 
Medusa  heads  forebodingly  to  warn  them  that  there 
is  a  time  for  everything,  and  that  the  time  of  their 
childhood  is  past. 

This  thought  may  have  struck  Adolph ;  for  his 
heart  was  sad  from  the  tearlessness  of  this  child 
who  was  no  child.  He  made  a  corner  for  her  in 
his  trundlebed,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  was  fast 
asleep ;  forgetful  of  a  drunken  father,  careless  of 
a  brutalized  mother. 

At  midnight  he  laid  the  manuscript  of  the  play 
aside  to  write  the  following  letter  :  — 


36  POOR  PEOPLE 

MY  DEAREST  MOTHER,  —  One  year  has  passed 
since  I  held  written  communion  with  your  memory. 
I  cherish  no  hope  of  these  lines  ever  being  read  by 
your  spirit ;  contrary  to  that  faith  in  which  you  be- 
lieved and  wished  ine  to  believe  too,  I  hold  that  the 
dead  are  dead  in  body  as  well  as  in  soul ;  of  them 
nothing  remains  but  their  memories,  ever  precious 
to  the  living.  It  is  with  the  desire  of  keeping  my 
fond  memory  of  you  ever  fresh  and  green  that  I 
pen  these  lines  each  year  on  the  return  of  this 
day.  Your  memory  I  regard  as  a  flower  that  is 
tender  and  delicate ;  and  if  the  flower  is  to  thrive 
and  brighten  my  sad  life  with  its  beauty  and  its 
perfume,  I  needs  must  tend  it  with  the  same  deli- 
cacy and  tenderness  of  which  the  root  and  fibre 
are  composed.  This  letter  I  consider  as  the  water 
that  gives  the  plant  life ;  nay,  as  a  yearly  changing 
of  the  soil  to  which  the  rootlets  cling  and  whence 
they  draw  their  nourishment.  Mother  mine,  if  I 
let  the  soil  become  exhausted,  if  I  do  not  add  to 
its  vital  elements,  the  plant  will  die,  and  the  one 
flower  in  the  bare  and  mean  room  of  my  existence 
will  cease  to  make  an  attractive  and  luring  spot 
whereon  my  eye,  weary  of  the  colorlessness  of  my 
habitation,  may  rest.  My  prayer  is  that  the  soil 
which  I  bring  to  that  beloved  bloom  may  become 
richer  and  better  every  year ;  for  the  quicker  the 
growth  of  the  plant,  the  greater  the  exhaustion  of 
the  soil. 

I  have  reckoned  my  growth  and  progress  from 
the  anniversary  of  your  birth  and  not  from  that  of 
my  own ;  I  count  my  age  from  the  hour  of  your 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DEAD  37     « 

death  rather  than  from  the  day  of  my  birth ;  for 
not  until  you  passed  away  did  life  have  its  meaning 
for  me  and  the  sorrow  of  humanity  its  message. 
One  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  able  to  voice  this 
message  and  the  world  may  hearken  unto  it ;  and 
I  may  help  to  make  it  the  purpose  of  all  to  lighten 
the  burden  of  each ;  and  the  purpose  of  each  to 
lighten  the  burden  of  all.  If  I  fail  you  will  know 
that  I  have  tried  ;  if  I  succeed  it  will  be  because  I 
have  recorded  the  whispering  of  your  words  to  my 
soul. 

Twice  during  the  past  year  have  I  broken  the 
promise  I  gave  to  you  on  your  deathbed ;  twice 
have  I  let  liquor  make  me  gross  as  the  beast  of  the 
fields ;  but  you  alone  can  know  how  I  struggled 
and  fought  and  battled  before  I  submitted.  The 
taint  has  been  in  my  blood  since  birth ;  yet  my  will 
is  strong,  and  before  its  persistent  assaults,  slowly, 
unwillingly,  and  step  by  step,  does  the  enemy  re- 
cede. The  combat  as  well  as  the  victory  is  dear 
to  the  hero ;  and  though  the  odds  against  him  be 
great  he  will  not  turn  back ;  for  his  war  is  waged 
against  principles  and  not  numbers. 

From  you  I  learned  long  ago  to  bear  all  bur- 
dens in  silence,  to  never  complain  ;  and  although 
my  lot  is  one  of  poverty  and  deprivation,  lonely, 
self-concentred,  devoid  of  woman's  sympathy  and 
man's  friendship,  still  I  complain  not ;  for  fate,  like 
a  wise  parent,  may  believe  that  the  sparing  of  the 
rod  is  the  spoiling  of  the  child.  Here  in  this  ten- 
ement there  are  many  whose  lives  are  fraught  with 
greater  hardship  than  mine ;  if  my  intelligence  is 


38  POOR  PEOPLE 

greater  than  theirs  I  must  suffer  more ;  for  better 
gifts  one  must  pay  a  greater  penalty.  What  am  I 
that  I  should  be  chosen  from  them  ?  Have  I  the 
right  to  demand  more  of  life  than  it  gave  to 
you? 

Your  fortitude,  your  gentleness,  your  sacrifice 
of  self  have  not  been  in  vain.  They  have  been  as 
stars  that  have  shone  through  the  dark  night  of 
my  life.  Without  them  my  night  would  have  been 
dark  indeed  and  I  should  have  stumbled  into  the 
pit  that  is  worse  than  death.  I  have  tried  to  shape 
my  life  to  that  fond  precept  of  thine  :  "  Live  as  if 
your  life  were  to  last  forever,  and  yet  as  if  death 
were  to  come  at  any  minute. 

I  can  truly  say  that  this  year  has  found  me 
stronger  and  better  in  all  senses  of  these  words. 
Vale! 

YOUR  SON. 

He  held  the  paper  over  the  flame  of  the  lamp, 
and  watched  it  burn  to  ashes  in  his  hand.  Then 
he  blew  out  the  light  and  lay  beside  the  child  on 
the  trundlebed. 


CHAPTER  V 

SOME  MORE  NEIGHBORS 

VOGEL  surprised  himself,  his  son,  and  his  em- 
ployer by  working  at  the  large  mantel  for  three 
long  days  with  unremitting  zeal ;  but  on  the  fourth 
morning,  as  he  was  combing  his  gray  hair,  of  which 
he  is  especially  proud,  the  bit  of  mirror  dropped 
from  his  hand  and  fell  on  the  floor.  It  was  not 
broken ;  it  was  cracked  —  which  was  far  more 
portentous  for  Vogel.  A  cracked  mirror  is  the 
most  malevolent  sign  in  his  long  category  of  the 
ominous  and  the  terrible ;  next  to  seeing  his  shadow 
in  church  it  is  the  worst  possible  thing  that  can 
happen. 

"  That  man  Stein  will  finish  the  mantel,"  grum- 
bled Vogel.  "  I  am  not  jealous,  not  a  bit ;  but  what 
does  he  know  about  carving  ?  '  Stein,'  said  I  to 
him  once, '  your  roses  look  like  elegant  cabbages ; ' 
and  Stein  said  that  I  was  jealous.  He  should  be 
proud  of  the  compliment." 

So  Vogel  sat  and  bemoaned  his  fate  and  blamed 
everything  and  everybody ;  he  was  waiting  for  the 
right  moment  to  slip  forth  and  console  himself  at 
Malachy's  ;  it  seemed  to  take  the  moment  endless 
hours  to  come. 

"  Es  kommt  verickte  Anna  die  Treppen  hinauf ," 
he  said  to  Adolph. 


40  POOR  PEOPLE 

Enter  Ann ;  exit  Vogel. 

Ann  is  what  the  tenement  people  term  a  "  loose 
one ; "  that  is,  one  ever  on  the  move ;  but  Ann 
scarcely  deserves  the  appellation ;  she  is  ever  threat- 
ening to  move,  and  never  does. 

"  I  came  to  say  good-by,  Master  Adolph,"  she 
spoke  in  her  corrupt  English  and  German,  the 
broken  pieces  of  her  language  glued  together  on  a 
substratum  of  Swedish. 

"  You  are  going  away,  Ann  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  away  from  here ;  this  is  no 
place  for  a  person  like  me  ;  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  first  Swedish  families ;  and  my  father  a  gen- 
eral in  the  army." 

She  dropped  her  long  canvas  bag  on  the  floor 
and  extended  both  her  hands  to  Adolph. 

"  Sit  down  a  minute ;  it  may  be  years  before  I 
see  you  again." 

"  I  thank  you,  Master  Adolph,  but  I  have  no 
time.  I  have  not  bid  the  others  good-by  yet.  I 
always  come  here  first,  you  know.  You  are  a  man 
of  education,  and  you  know  how  to  appreciate  a 
woman  of  fine  family." 

Ann  is  tall  and  gaunt ;  her  eyes  blue ;  her  hair 
blonde  as  the  sun,  her  cast  of  countenance  betoken- 
ing a  mild  melancholia.  She  is  scrupulously  clean  ; 
and  her  worn  dresses  evince  an  endless  brushing 
and  cleaning.  She  sews  in  her  rooms  all  day  and 
she  scrubs  through  half  the  night.  She  seems  in 
an  eternal  chase  for  a  speck  of  dust  that  is  ever 
eluding  her  vigilance. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Ann  ?  " 


SOME  MORE  NEIGHBORS  41 

"  I  don't  know,  Master  Adolph,  but  I  want  to 
go  away  from  here.  The  doctor  says  my  right 
lung  is  affected;  now  if  it  were  my  left  lung  I 
might  stay ;  but  the  right  lung  —  that  is  as  bad  as 
catarrh."  The  advertisements  of  quacks  have  in- 
spired tenement  people  with  a  horror  for  catarrh. 

"What  doctor  said  that,  Ann?" 

"  Dr.  Jan  Zwiefka,  the  shoemaker." 

Adolph  smiles;  he  knows  the  doctor  and  his 
theories. 

"  But  you  look  well,  Ann." 

"  And  I  feel  well,  Master  Adolph ;  but  it  is  time 
for  me  to  move.  To  stay  in  one  place  too  long  is 
not  good.  I  am  so  tired  of  the  brown  walls ;  and 
I  know  where  I  can  get  a  room  painted  in  the 
nicest  red  for  the  same  price,  and  it  has  a  window 
facing  a  court,  too." 

Ann  Nielsen's  fit  for  moving  is  naught  but  a 
restless  fever  induced  by  the  loneliness  and  monot- 
ony of  her  life.  She  works  on  like  mad  from  sun- 
rise until  sundown,  as  if  the  loss  of  a  stitch  meant 
the  loss  of  her  life.  Then  the  fever  comes ;  and 
Ann's  moving  is  a  mere  excuse  for  paying  calls ; 
her  good-by  a  mere  excuse  for  saying  good-morn- 
ing. 

"  Only  think,  Master  Adolph,"  she  went  on,  "  I 
read  in  the  papers  last  night  that  Hans's  schooner, 
the  Mary  Collins,  is  coming  home.  I  expected 
him  last  night,  and  I  set  a  place  for  him  at  the 
table;  and  I  quit  work  early  to  tidy  things  and 
have  everything  in  place;  but  he  did  not  come. 
Maybe  the  boat  is  delayed.  When  I  hear  the 


42  POOR  PEOPLE 

wind  at  night  I  tremble  and  draw  the  covers  over 
my  head ;  for  I  know  that  it  is  the  terrible  wind 
that  keeps  my  Hans  from  me.  Do  you  think  that 
there  is  a  storm  on  the  lake  now  ?  I  forgot  to  look 
in  the  papers." 

"Dear  Ann,"  says  Adolph,  touching  her  worn 
hand,  "  you  must  be  patient  and  wait ;  and  God 
will  reward  you  by  sending  Hans  home." 

Ann's  husband  was  lost  on  the  lake  in  a  fearful 
storm  years  ago ;  it  is  her  delusion  that  he  will  come 
back ;  to  take  this  delusion  from  Ann  would  be  to 
rob  her  of  all  that  is  real  in  her  life. 

"  I  wish  that  God  would  hurry,  Master  Adolph." 

He  looks  at  her  thin  cheeks  and  thinner  chest ; 
he  remembers  when  the  cheeks  were  full  and  the 
breast  buxom.  "God  will  send  him  soon,  Ann; 
perhaps  before  you  expect." 

"  Thank  you,  Master  Adolph,  you  always  treat 
me  politely.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  our  home 
in  Sweden.  You  always  remind  me  of  my  father ; 
you  have  such  fine  manners.  But  I  must  be  going 
now,  I  must." 

"  But  we  can't  spare  you,  Ann ;  you  are  the  one 
fine  lady  in  the  building,  and  if  you  go  away  what 
will  the  rest  of  us  do  ?" 

This  comforts  Ann ;  she  takes  her  seat  again. 
"  Yes,  Master  Adolph,  it  is  a  good  thing  to  have 
a  lady  in  the  tenement ;  it  exerts  such  a  refining 
influence." 

Ann  gazes  about  the  room.  "  Master  Adolph. 
how  can  a  fine  gentleman  like  you  live  in  such  a 
place  ?  You  read  in  the  printed  books  all  day  and 


SOME  MORE  NEIGHBORS  43 

you  forget.  You  must  go  out  of  the  room  and  let 
me  clean  up,  you  must."  She  runs  her  knowing 
thumb  over  the  bench.  "  Look  at  this  dust." 

Adolph  protests  ;  Ann  insists. 

Concluding  that  it  may  give  the  forlorn  creature 
pleasure,  he  finally  concedes  the  day.  Ann  dis- 
appears with  her  bag,  and  reappears  with  pail  and 
soap  and  brush. 

"Don't  disturb  the  papers,"  is  Adolph's  final 
injunction. 

After  Adolph  comes  the  deluge. 

Meanwhile  Herr  Vogel  had  gone  in  quest  of 
Eounds  and  had  failed  to  find  him.  A  hope  for 
credit  was  never  quite  extinct  in  Vogel;  he  had 
been  born  with  the  idea  that  credit  should  be  free 
as  air,  and  he  was  loath  to  give  up  his  belief  —  it 
would  have  deranged  all  his  economic  theories.  He 
walked  over  to  Malachy's  penniless  but  confident. 

"  Meester  Mulachy  (the  washing  of  hands  '  with 
invisible  soap  in  imperceptible  water '),  I  feels  like 
de  nichtengale  dis  morning.  Vork  do  a  man  gut, 
eh  ?  Ach,  dat  mantel ;  you  should  hav  it  seen." 

"  You  have  been  at  work,  that 's  a  fact,  Vogel." 

"  Herr  Vogel,  pleese.  At  vork  ?  I  should  say ; 
look  mine  brow  on,  de  schvet  is  der  yet." 

He  rattled  something  in  his  pocket  that  sounded 
like  money ;  the  noise  was  produced  by  the  jingling 
of  sixpenny  nails. 

"  How  much  I  owe,  Meester  Mulachy  ?  I  like 
mein  pill  to  pay.  A  pill  vorries  me  de  life  out.  I 
hate  it.  I  go  all  de  morning  around  mein  pills  to 
pay." 


44  POOR  PEOPLE 

He  jingled  the  nails  again ;  a  little  louder  this 
time. 

The  saloon-keeper  found  Vogel's  account  in  a 
small  brown-covered  book.  "  You  owe  me  for  five 
drinks  and  two  cigars,  Herr  Vogel." 

"  Can  it  be  bossible  ?  I  dought  als  it  vas  more 
den  dat.  It  bays  to  deal  honest  peeple  niit.  Veil, 
1  hav  von  drink  und  a  cigar  mit." 

He  rattled  the  nails  softly.  Malachy  poured  out 
the  liquor,  and  handed  Vogel  the  cigar-box ;  to 
have  reversed  the  procedure  would  have  been  bad 
business  on  his  part. 

Vogel  drank  quickly  and  edged  towards  the  door. 
Malachy's  mouth  spread  the  full  length  of  his 
cheeks.  "  Ain't  you  going  to  pay  ?"  he  yelled. 

Simulating  both  surprise  and  horror,  Vogel 
turned  his  pockets  inside  out  and  dropped  the 
nails  on  the  floor.  "  I  hav  scheated  meinself.  .  .  . 
I  vas  mein  mind  absent  von ;  und  I  hav  put  de 
nails  in  mein  boket  und  left  de  money  zu  home." 

Malachy  threw  a  glass  at  the  head  of  the  bibu- 
lous rogue;  but  the  bibulous  rogue  dodged  and 
slammed  the  door.  Malachy  sat  down,  and 
laughed  until  his  fat  sides  ached  ;  nothing  amused 
him  like  a  practical  joke.  A  man  clever  enough 
to  cheat  Malachy,  according  to  the  said  Malachy, 
was  the  cleverest  man  in  the  world. 

Vogel  burned  for  another  drink ;  one  was  worse 
than  none.  The  Polish  shoemaker  in  the  base- 
ment, Dr.  Jan  Zwiefka,  would  often  pay  his  pa- 
tients for  taking  his  remedies.  Vogel  usually 
avoided  the  Pole ;  he  never  went  thither,  but  he 


SOME  MORE  NEIGHBORS  45 

came  forth  suffering  from  some  imaginary  evil 
which  Dr.  Jan  thrust  upon  him.  Zwiefka  has  a 
method  all  his  own  of  first  talking  a  patient  into  a 
disease  and  then  talking  him  out  of  it.  This  school 
of  medicine  differs  from  all  others  in  that  the  doc- 
tor pays  the  patient ;  but  Jan  had  a  strong  sense 
of  the  fitness  of  things. 

Vogel  found  Jan  at  work  on  his  bench.  The 
Pole  will  drop  a  shoe  for  a  patient  at  any  time. 
He  hates  the  mending  of  torn  shoes ;  he  loves  to 
mend  shattered  health. 

"  Good-morning,  Herr  Vogel ;  how  do  you  feel 
this  morning  ?  "  asked  Jan,  dropping  his  hammer. 

Vogel  hesitated  before  answering ;  he  knew  not 
which  horn  of  the  dilemma  to  grasp ;  if  he  started 
by  saying  he  was  well,  the  doctor  would  prove  to 
him  in  less  than  no  time  that  he  had  never  been 
so  ill ;  if  he  started  by  saying  that  he  was  ill  the 
doctor  would  prove  him  well,  and  then  there  would 
be  little  chance  of  securing  his  patient's  fee  for  a 
drink. 

He  chose  a  middle  course.  "  Veil,  I  hav  been 
vorse  und  I  hav  been  better." 

"  Kidney  trouble,  eh  ?  " 

Vogel  turned  pale ;  the  Pole  noticed  his  pallor. 

"  How  pale  you  are ;  certainly  you  have  kidney 
trouble.  Look  at  the  rings  under  your  eyes.  Let 's 
see  your  tongue." 

Vogel  was  unwilling  to  obey ;  if  the  doctor  saw 
his  tongue,  it  would  never  be  the  same  to  him 
again. 

"Afraid  to   stick  out  your  tongue,  are  you? 


46  POOR  PEOPLE 

Well,  that 's  a  symptom.  Ah,  there 's  a  coating  on 
it  an  inch  thick  !  If  you  have  n't  kidney  trouble 
in  its  worst  form,  then  I  'm  a  poorer  doctor  than  I 
am  a  shoemaker,  that 's  all." 

Vogel  did  not  see  the  logical  escape  from  his 
disease.  "  Vat  you  do  for  him  ?  "  he  inquired,  even 
the  red  of  his  lips  turned  to  white. 

"  The  best  thing  is  a  lemon  or  two.  Leave  the 
lemons  in  your  room  until  they  turn  black.  Lem- 
ons, you  see,  have  great  absorbing  powers ;  they 
draw  the  poisonous  matter  from  you,  take  the  dis- 
ease themselves,  and  leave  you  well." 

"  But  I  hav  no  money  mit  me  de  lemons  to  buy. 
Could  you  oblige  me  a  quarter  mit  until  mem  sohn 
comes  home  ?  " 

"  Ten  cents'  worth  of  lemons  will  cure  all  the 
kidney  trouble  in  the  world."  The  shoemaker  drew 
a  dime  out  of  the  small  box  under  his  bench. 

Vogel  immediately  lost  all  faith  in  the  efficacy 
of  lemons ;  they  did  too  much  for  too  little  money. 

"  I  am  afraid  dat  I  am  inflected  heart  trouble 
mit,"  —  the  remedy  ought  to  cost  twice  as  much 
as  the  kidney  remedy,  the  trouble  being  twice  as 
vital. 

"  Eh,  heart  trouble  ?  Perhaps  you  have.  The 
heart  and  the  kidneys  are  tied  together  like  a  horse 
and  wagon." 

Vogel's  eyes  brightened.  "I  alvays  vas  de 
friend  von  de  Bolish  peeple.  De  Boles  and  de 
Schermans,  dey  vas  de  best  peeple  in  de  vorld. 
Dey  vas  de  only  hard-vorking,  honest  peeple. 
Dey  vas  de  only  doctors  vat  I  hav  faith  in,  de 


SOME  MORE  NEIGHBORS  47 

Boles  und  de  Schermans.  Could  you  oblige  ine  a 
half  dollar  mit  until  mein  sohn  comes  home?  I 
vould  like  me  some  tea  to  buy.  Hot  tea  vas  a 
great  ding  heart  trouble  for." 

The  dime  slid  back  into  the  box.  "  You  will 
have  to  get  rid  of  the  heart  trouble  before  you  take 
the  kidney  cure.  The  horse  must  be  all  right  be- 
fore the  wagon  can  go.  Hot  tea  is  no  good." 

Vogel's  eyes  were  glued  to  the  box.  He  hoped 
an  expensive  medicine  would  be  prescribed. 

"  What  you  want  to  do,"  Jan  went  on  to  say, 
"  is  to  take  short  breaths  —  that  saves  the  heart 
ever  so  much  work." 

"  You  von't  let  me  hav  de  quarter  den  ?  " 

Jan  remained  obdurate  on  the  question  of  tea. 

Vogel  arose  in  a  rage.  "  I  hate  de  Bolish  pee- 
ple.  Dey  vas  de  most  descheitful  peeple  in  de 
vorld.  I  vill  be  de  friend  von  de  Bolish  peeple  no 
more." 

The  cabinet-maker  was  consumed  with  thirst, 
and  despair  was  added  to  the  flame  ;  he  knew  not 
where  to  turn.  Adolph  had  his  wage  of  the  last 
three  days  ;  the  rent  would  be  due  on  the  morrow ; 
and  to  borrow  a  small  part  of  his  own  money 
would  be  far  more  difficult  than  to  get  credit  for 
another  drink  at  Malachy's.  Taking  all  into  con- 
sideration, however,  he  decided  to  try  his  persua- 
sive powers  on  Adolph.  To  his  surprise  he  found 
his  son  gone,  and  the  Swedish  woman  knee-deep 
in  the  ocean  of  suds  and  water.  He  rubbed  his 
hands,  and  perched  his  diminutive  body  on  one 
foot. 


48  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  Ach,  it  vas  Mrs.  Nielson  ;  alvays  so  industri- 
ous. I  hav  often  said  to  mein  sohn  you  vas  de 
most  fine  voman  in  de  vorld.  Und  you  alvays 
look  so  Jung  und  f risen,  like  a  new  rose  in  de 
sphring.  Your  scheeks  vas  like  two  lilies  roses 
mixed  mit.  Any  von  could  see  dat  you  vas  de 
daughter  von  a  scheneral." 

He  drew  nearer,  smiling  his  sweetest.  Ann 
swung  her  broom  threateningly.  "  Don't  you  dare 
make  love  to  me !  I  '11  scream  if  you  come  any 
nearer ! " 

Vogel  stood  aghast.  To  have  one's  good  inten- 
tions misunderstood  is  hard. 

"  I  make  luv  ?  An  old  man  like  me  to  de  daugh- 
ter von  a  scheneral  ?  Vy,  I  hav  never  von  such  a 
ding  dought.  Adolph  has  gone  avay  mein  money 
mit  und  I  vished  to  know  ob  you  could  oblige  me 
a  quarter  mit  ?  I  pay  him  back  so  soon  Adolph 
comes." 

Ann  turned  round  and  drew  her  money  from  the 
depths  of  her  stocking  where  she  kept  it  knotted 
in  a  handkerchief. 

"  Ach,  you  vill  lend  me  it.  I  alvays  vas  de 
friend  von  de  Schvedish  peeple.  De  Schveds  und 
de  Schermans  dey  vas  de  best  peeple  in  de  vorld. 
Dey  vas  de  only  hard-vorking  honest  peeple." 

"  The  smallest  that  I  have  is  a  half  dollar,"  said 
Ann. 

"  I  bring  you  de  schange." 

"  No,"  she  answered  stoutly,  "  you  promised  me 
that  the  last  time."  She  put  the  half  dollar  back 
into  her  handkerchief. 


SOME  MORE  NEIGHBORS  49 

"  Vat,  you  von't  let  me  Lav  him  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  vigorously. 

"  I  hate  de  Schvedish  peeple ;  dey  vas  de  most 
descheitful  peeple  in  de  vorld." 

It  was  past  high  noon  when  Ann,  her  task  well 
done,  unpinned  her  skirt  and  descended  to  her 
room.  She  will  stay  there  until  she  gets  ready  to 
move  again. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IDA   CALLS   ON   ADOLPH 

ADOLPH  is  gradually  growing  less  taciturn  and 
distant ;  we  met  several  times  during  the  last  fort- 
night, and  each  time  he  was  more  affable.  To-day, 
however,  he  was  as  reticent  and  unapproachable  as 
of  old.  He  informed  me  that  his  father  is  quite 
ill,  which  no  doubt  accounts  for  his  aloofness.  Ke- 
questing  mother  to  make  one  of  her  nourishing 
broths,  I  started  upstairs  to  pay  my  respects  to 
Vogel. 

Mein  Herr  was  fast  asleep,  and,  although  it  was 
Sunday,  the  son  was  employing  himself  with  his 
watches.  I  took  my  seat  beside  Adolph,  quite  in- 
terested in  his  work.  I  had  not  been  seated  very 
long  before  Ida  made  her  appearance  with  the 
steaming  bowl.  She  stood  abashed  when  Adolph 
opened  the  door. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ? "  asked  Adolph.  The 
invitation  was  neither  warm  nor  pressing. 

Ida  stepped  into  the  room,  however ;  Adolph 
looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  retract  his  request. 
The  strange  father  and  the  odd  son  had  set  Ida's 
curiosity  on  tiptoe ;  the  rigid  reserve  of  the  odd 
son  had  piqued  an  interest  that  is  even  more  fem- 
inine than  inquisitiveness.  Most  women  conclude 


IDA  CALLS  ON  ADOLPH  51 

that  a  man  who  is  slow  and  unwilling  to  speak  has 
much  to  say. 

"  I  appreciate  your  thoughtfulness,"  he  remarked 
coldly  enough.  He  was  not  in  the  least  constrained 
by  her  presence,  acting  like  a  man  of  the  world 
rather  than  the  recluse  he  was.  He  is  very  hard 
to  gauge,  is  Adolph. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  take  your  thanks," 
blushed  Ida  ;  "  the  thoughtfulness  is  entirely  due 
to  father  ;  I  merely  carried  out  his  instructions." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  in  carrying  out  an  order 
in  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  given,"  he  said  indiffer- 
ently. His  eyes  went  boring  through  his  thick 
glasses  as  if  searching  the  recesses  of  her  mind 
and  heart.  "  I  have  passed  you  so  often  that  I 
feel  as  if  I  knew  you,"  he  said,  as  though  he  wished 
to  show  that  he  was  not  at  loss  for  a  word. 

"I  might  say  the  same;  but  I  never  thought 
you  took  any  notice  of  me."  This  coming  from 
Ida  surprised  me. 

"  One  may  notice  many  things  without  seeming 
to." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  nod,  then  ?  "  Ida  had  taken 
herself  unawares  and  spoken  without  meaning  to, 
as  one  will  when  flurried. 

"  A  formal  bow  means  so  little ;  it  means  less 
than  nothing,"  he  answered  dryly.  His  eyes  went 
boring,  boring  through  her  again,  evidently  in 
search  for  the  thought  that  had  inspired  the  ques- 
tion. 

I  arose  to  go.  "Don't  hurry,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  mind  if  you  do,"  is  what  his  tones  implied. 


52  POOR  PEOPLE 

Just  then  Vogel  awoke.  I  was  obliged  to  re- 
main until  he  drank  the  broth.  "You  vill  tell 
your  wife,"  he  repeated  and  repeated,  "  dat  she  vas 
an  anschel  heaven  von,  Mr.  Vilson.  Guth  soup 
vas  better  als  vein.  I  hav  no  love  vein  for.  Vy 
men  should  verget  demselves  vein  mit  vas  a  buzzel 
to  me.  I  hate  it." 

Half  abstractedly  Adolph  lifted  the  "shade" 
off  the  works  of  a  watch.  Despite  his  mild  protest, 
I  took  this  as  a  signal  for  my  departure.  Vogel 
was  clamorous  for  an  extension  of  my  visit. 

"  There,  I  can  see  you  and  not  be  in  your  way," 
and  Ida  sidled  between  the  end  of  the  bench  and 
the  window. 

"  Oh,  you  Jre  not  in  the  way,"  he  assured  her, 
with  a  trifle  more  warmth  in  his  voice  and  manner. 
"  I  picked  up  the  4  shade  '  without  knowing  why." 

"  Nervousness,  perhaps,"  she  suggested,  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"  No,  I  'm  never  nervous ;  simply  absence  of 
mind.  I  didn't  intend  to  work  any  more  this 
morning." 

"  But  I  wish  you  would,  just  to  oblige  your  vis- 
itor. I  like  to  see  a  watchmaker  at  his  work." 

"Don't  you  think  that  I  have  to  work  hard 
enough  without  working  just  to  gratify  your  curi- 
osity ?  "  he  grumbled.  I  presume  that  he  over- 
heard his  father's  foolish  chatter,  and  it  annoyed 
him.  Again  I  arose  to  go ;  but  Vogel  had  reached 
the  fifth  impossible  explanation  of  his  illness,  and 
he  insisted  upon  retailing  a  hundred  that  I  might 
at  least  believe  one. 


IDA  CALLS  ON  ADOLPH  53 

"  You  don't  have  to  work  half  as  hard  as  I  do," 
answered  Ida,  partly  in  apology,  partly  in  the  way 
of  retort. 

"  I  did  n't  know  that  you  worked ;  I  thought 
that  you  stayed  at  home." 

"  How  did  you  know  that?  " 

"  I  have  seen  your  sister  go  away  morning  after 
morning,  and  return  evening  after  evening,  and  I 
never  see  you." 

"  I  do  my  work  at  home.     I  sew." 

"  Well,  that 's  work,  if  you  sew  enough." 

"  I  sew  from  morning  until  night." 

"  Hm !  I  don't  mind  showing  you  a  bit  about 
my  work ;  but  what 's  the  use ;  you  would  n't  un- 
derstand it?" 

"  Oh,  yes  I  would ;  just  try  me." 

"  Well,  do  you  know  what  makes  a  watch  go  ?  " 

"  Winding  it." 

"  But  what  does  the  winding  do  ?  " 

"  Tightens  the  spring." 

"  That 's  like  saying  a  man  moves  because  he 
walks.  What  does  the  tightening  of  the  spring 
do?" 

"  That 's  what  I  want  you  to  explain  to  me," 
she  laughed.  His  curtness  attracted  her ;  she  was 
bound  to  overcome  it.  To  understand  him,  she 
thought,  was  the  same  as  comprehending  the 
mechanism  of  the  watch ;  she  needed  but  to  get  at 
the  moving  principle. 

He  explained  the  nature  of  the  escapement  to 
her,  and  went  on  to  say :  "  There  are  always  fifteen 
cogs  to  the  escapement  wheels  of  a  watch  ;  but  it 


54  POOR  PEOPLE 

varies  in  a  clock  —  there  may  be  any  number.  If 
the  cogs  are  n't  equidistant  to  a  hair's  breadth  all 
kinds  of  trouble  result.  Most  watchmakers  take 
this  measure,  we  call  it  a  millimetre  measure,  and 
try  to  gauge  by  that.  But  they  make  mistakes, 
and  the  least  mistake  makes  the  clock  keep  bad 
time.  I  invented  this  ;  it 's  impossible  to  make 
mistakes  with  it."  He  showed  her  a  long  rod, 
resting  on  two  upright  bars,  with  a  dial-plate  at 
the  end,  expounding  how  the  clock  wheels  when 
attached  thereto  must  move  in  mathematical  pre- 
cision with  the  turning  of  the  dial-plate. 

"  And  you  invented  that,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  It 's  hardly  important  enough  to  be  called  an 
invention  ;  it 's  merely  a  time  saver.  You  grasp 
things  quickly  for  a  woman,"  he  added  patroniz- 
ingly. 

"  You  explain  things  clearly  for  a  man,"  she 
replied  in  the  same  tone. 

"  Hm !  Is  there  anything  else  that  I  can  explain 
to  you?" 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  I  understand  it  perfectly." 

"  If  you  understand  it  so  well,  put  this  watch 
together." 

She  tried,  with  but  poor  success,  and  he  smiled 
provokingly. 

"  You  could  hardly  expect  me  to  master  it  in 
one  lesson." 

"  That 's  the  last  thing  that  I  expected,  heaven 
knows ;  but  then  you  were  so  positive  that  you 
could  do  it." 

"I  didn't  say  that   I  could  put  a  watch  to- 


IDA  CALLS  ON  ADOLPH  55 

gether ;  I  said  that  I  understood  perfectly  how  it 
goes." 

"  You  must  n't  get  angry,  miss." 

"  I  am  not  angry,  mister.  But  I  insist  that  I 
did  n't  claim  too  much  when  I  said  that  I  under- 
stood a  watch  perfectly." 

He  smiled ;  her  provocation  was  pleasing.  "  But 
if  you  understood  it  perfectly,  you  could  '  assem- 
ble '  a  watch  as  easily  as  I  can  add  two  and  two." 

He  became  more  agreeable  as  she  became  more 
vexed.  He  enlightened  her  on  the  system  of  pul- 
leys and  bellows  which  regulates  the  cries  of  the 
cuckoo-clock;  he  informed  her  about  the  more 
complicated  machinery  of  the  cathedral  clock  at 
Strasburg ;  of  the  puppets  that  debouch  at  certain 
hours  from  the  Frauenkirche  clock  at  Nuremberg. 
It  was  all  new  to  her,  and  she  listened  with  an  ab- 
sorbing interest,  as  I  should  have  liked  to  do  if 
Vogel  had  given  me  half  a  chance. 

The  conversation  about  watches  and  clocks  was 
beginning  to  lag  when  she  gave  it  a  fillip  with  • 
"  Father  tells  me  that  you  write  plays." 

"  I  'm  sorry  that  your  father  told  you  that,"  he 
frowned. 

"Why?" 

"Well,  most  people  here  consider  a  man  who 
writes  plays  in  the  nature  of  a  museum  curios- 

%." 

"  But  I  don't ;  I  think  that  they  are  the  same  as 
other  men  except  that  they  write  plays." 

"  Yes,  that 's  it ;  they  are  the  same  as  other  men 
—  except  that  they  write  plays." 


56  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  I  think  that  you  are  twice  as  fortunate  as 
most  men." 

"  I  could  never  find  it  out.  What  makes  you 
say  so  ?  " 

"  Because  you  have  two  occupations." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  good  thing  to  put  to  sea  carrying 
a  lifeboat  with  your  vessel.  Only  my  lifeboat  is 
no  good,  and  the  vessel  is  worse,  if  anything." 

"  But  you  have  another  lifeboat  besides ;  father 
told  me  that  you  used  to  be  an  actor." 

I  blushed  to  my  ears.  I  certainly  must  get  Ida 
away  before  she  has  an  opportunity  to  divulge 
anything  more  that  he  confided  to  me. 

"  Hm !  It  seems  to  me  that  your  father  told 
you  considerable  about  me.  I  never  was  an  actor ; 
I  used  to  act ;  there  is  quite  a  difference." 

Ida  paid  no  attention  to  his  taciturnity.  She 
astonishes  me;  she  is  as  relentless  as  a  surgeon 
who  has  started  with  a  probe. 

"Did  you  like  it?" 

"Yes."  His  monosyllabic  answer  came  with  a 
snap. 

"May  I  ask  you  how  you  happened  to  go  on 
the  stage  ?  " 

"  You  have  already  asked  me,  and  in  the  same 
breath  you  request  my  permission  to  ask  me?" 
His  little  eyes  went  boring  from  her  head  to  her 
foot ;  then  he  said,  like  a  witness  compelled  to  tes- 
tify on  the  stand :  "  My  mother's  brother  was  an 
actor  in  a  German  troupe,  and  I  joined  it  when  I 
was  just  old  enough  to  trot  across  the  stage  with  a 


IDA  CALLS  ON  ADOLPH  57 

letter.  Is  there  anything  else  you  wish  to  know, 
miss  ?  "  He  smiled  with  a  mock  politeness. 

"Not  just  now/'  replied  Ida  quite  tranquilly; 
"  you  have  told  me  a  great  deal  for  a  first  visit." 

I  seized  the  advantage  of  the  ensuing  pause  to 
hasten  our  departure. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ADOLPH   CALLS    ON   IDA 

WHEN  Ida  called  Adolph  into  our  rooms  to- 
night as  he  was  passing  down  the  stairs,  I  doubt  if 
that  young  man  was  more  startled  than  I. 

"  Did  you  call  me  ?  "  he  asked,  his  scrutinizing 
glance  in  search  for  an  explanation  of  the  un. 
wonted  procedure  before  she  could  vouchsafe  it. 

"  Yes,  I  called  you.  Are  you  surprised  at  that  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  My  surprise  will  depend  upon  what 
you  want." 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  take  a  clock  apart "  — 

"And  you  had  to  call  me  to  put  it  together? 
That  does  n't  surprise  me  at  all." 

"  You  have  guessed  it ;  but  anyway  you  might 
have  said :  '  I  suppose  there  is  very  little  for  me  to 
do.  Perhaps  a  wheel  or  a  spring  or  a  little  trifle 
like  that.' " 

"  Hm  !     Let 's  see  the  clock." 

She  brought  him  the  case,  and  a  box  containing 
the  works,  —  a  tangled  mass  of  screws,  springs, 
and  wheels. 

He  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "  My  first  lesson 
was  all  thrown  away  ;  you  should  have  done  better 
than  that." 

"  But  almost  a  whole  week  has  passed  since  I 


ADOLPH  CALLS  ON  IDA  59 

had  my  first  lesson,  and  I  fear  that  I  have  forgot- 
ten more  than  I  knew." 

"  That 's  impossible  ;  you  did  n't  know  any- 
thing." 

"  But  you  said  that  I  learned  very  quickly." 

"  I  take  it  all  back  now." 

She  takes  his  scolding  with  considerable  amuse- 
ment, although  she  tries  her  best  to  appear  dis- 
pleased. 

"I  would  like  to  see  how  much  you  can  learn  in 
one  lesson.  See  here."  She  put  some  dress  pat- 
terns on  the  top  of  the  table.  "  Now  I  am  going 
to  show  you  how  "  — 

"  But  that 's  a  woman's  work." 

"  I  've  seen  a  lot  of  men  do  it." 

"  It  takes  nine  tailors  to  make  one  man.  I  never 
saw  a  manly  man  at  that  kind  of  work." 

"  So  is  watchmaking  a  man's  work." 

"  It  might  be  just  as  well,  then,  if  you  leave  it 
alone,"  he  said  curtly.  Nevertheless,  he  went  for 
some  tools,  and  he  spent  a  full  hour  in  -putting  the 
disjointed  members  together,  giving  a  full  and  lucid 
commentary  as  he  progressed. 

When  he  had  done  she  thanked  him  profusely. 

"  You  need  n't  thank  me.  I  did  n't  intend  to  do 
it  for  nothing.  I  shall  take  it  out  in  sewing."  His 
brusqueness  captivated  by  its  oddness. 

"I  might  teach  you  how,  and  then  you  could 
learn  to  do  your  own  sewing." 

"  Thank  you ;  I  don't  care  to  learn.  I  can't  re- 
concile myself  to  seeing  a  man  with  a  needle  in  his 
hand." 


60  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  Sailors  sew,  and  I  'm  sure  that  they  are  manly 
men." 

"  They  sew  in  a  manly  fashion,  altogether  dif- 
ferent from  a  woman." 

"  Perhaps  you  think  less  of  me  on  account  of 
the  work  I  do  ?  " 

"  No  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  like  to  see  a  woman  do 
womanly  work." 

"  I  was  afraid  that  you  might  regard  me  as  a 
curiosity,"  she  remarked  slyly. 

"  I  thought  that  I  was  the  only  one  in  the  ten- 
ement foolish  enough  to  be  beset  with  such  a 
fear." 

"You  mustn't  be  so  conceited;  you  will  find 
that  you  are  just  like  other  people,  when  you  get 
to  know  other  people  well  enough." 

"  I  suppose,"  he  answered  dryly,  and  thus  re- 
marking he  took  his  leave. 

The  following  night  Ida  tapped  at  his  door. 

"  I  brought  this  clock  for  you  to  mend.  One  of 
my  customers  gave  it  to  me.  She  was  going  to 
send  it  out  for  repair,  when  I  told  her  that  I  had 
a  friend  —  that  I  knew  somebody  who  did  the  work 
well  and  cheap  ;  so  she  let  me  take  it." 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  do  my  work  well  and 
cheap  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  that  you  do  it  well ;  and  as  to  the 
cheapness  —  I  guess  that  prices  don't  vary  a  great 
deal." 

"The  more  is  the  pity.  The  idea  of  paying 
the  best  watchmaker  the  same  wages  as  the  poor- 
est ! " 


ADOLPH  CALLS  ON  IDA  61 

"  You  might  thank  me  before  you  find  fault." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  should.  I  have  all  the 
work  that  I  can  do ;  besides,  I  never  asked  you  to 
solicit  for  me ;  I  could  do  that  for  myself,  if  there 
were  any  necessity  for  my  doing  so." 

"Then  I'll  take  it  back,"  and,  coloring,  she 
turned  to  go. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  the  clock. 
"  As  long  as  you  have  gone  to  all  that  trouble  on 
my  account,  why  leave  it  here." 

She  held  the  clock  tighter,  her  face  showing  the 
disappointment  she  felt.  "  You  talk  to  me  as  if  I 
had  done  wrong,  and  I  thought  that  you  would  be 
pleased ;  and  you  ought  to  be  pleased ;  not  that  it 
amounts  to  much  in  itself ;  but  then  good  inten- 
tions are  always  worth  something." 

"  Yes,  so  they  are.  You  must  n't  mind  my 
gruffness  ;  it 's  just  my  way. " 

"  I  don't  think  that  it  is  a  very  good  way." 

"  I  'm  sure  that  it 's  not ;  but  then,  it 's  my 
way." 

"  And  no  doubt  that  is  all  there  is  to  be  said 
about  it." 

"  No,  there  's  a  great  deal  more  to  be  said  about 
it,  but  I  fear  it 's  getting  tiresome  to  you  ;  so  I 
won't  say  anything  more  about  it  now.  I  thank 
you  very  much.  It  was  really  very  kind  and  con- 
siderate of  you.  Good-night."  He  took  the  clock 
and  walked  into  the  room. 

His  thoughts  centred  about  her  for  some  min- 
utes after  he  tried  to  concentrate  his  attention 
on  his  manuscript ;  he  dismissed  her  from  his 


62  POOR  PEOPLE 

mind  with  a  frown.  Her  face,  smiling  and  serene, 
loomed  forth  in  his  vision  again.  He  wondered  at 
the  persistency  of  the  image,  and  fell  to  reflect- 
ing. 

"  Curious  sort  for  this  place ;  she  seems  to  have 
some  sense,"  was  his  conclusion. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   SONG  OF  THE   SHIRT 

WHEN  Adolph  came  down  last  Saturday  he 
brought  his  father  with  him.  Herr  Vogel  began 
the  evening  with  a  serenade  of  compliments.  A 
compliment  is  the  price  Herr  Vogel  pays  for  ad- 
mission into  every  home.  He  extends  it  in  pay- 
ment for  debts.  He  deems  it  good  security  for  a 
loan ;  in  short,  he  would  have  it  serve  every  pur- 
pose of  money,  and  a  good  many  purposes  that 
money  will  not  serve.  Most  people  in  the  tene- 
ment have  discovered  long  ago  that  his  coin  is 
spurious. 

Rounds  entered  just  after  the  Vogels.  He  ex- 
tended his  hand  to  Adolph ;  Adolph  extended  his 
finger  to  Rounds. 

The  assembled  guests  begged  me  to  play  a  part 
of  my  opera  for  them.  I  have  a  tender  heart  and 
I  can  never  resist  giving  to  beggars  what  I  long  to 
give  away.  I  had  played  on  my  flute  for  but  a 
few  minutes  to  Jane's  accompaniment  when  Vogel 
began  to  cry.  Vogel  with  all  his  faults  is  really 
an  artistic  soul  and  fond  of  music  and  poetry ;  he 
has  a  bucket  of  tears  ever  ready  to  topple  at  the 
slightest  warning.  I  have  known  him  to  cry  like 
mad  over  one  of  Heine's  lyrics;  but  as  at  such 


64  POOK  PEOPLE 

times  he  was  under  the  influence  of  liquor,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  his  tears  were  induced  by  the 
effect  of  alcohol  rather  than  the  pathos  of  Heine. 
I  fear  that  I  cannot  lay  the  flattering  unction  of 
his  weeping  to  my  music. 

The  grand  finale  of  the  third  act  is  done ;  Adolph 
whispers  something  to  Ida.  It  concerns  my  music, 
because  she  seems  grateful  and  smiles.  Jane  has 
left  the  piano  and  taken  her  seat  beside  Mr. 
Rounds.  He  is  whispering  to  her ;  it  is  not  about 
the  opera,  or  Jane  would  not  blush  and  giggle. 

If  I  were  a  young  man,  how  much  should  I  pre- 
fer Ida  to  Jane;  but,  fortunately  for  fathers  of 
large  families,  tastes  differ.  Jane  is  the  prettier, 
she  is  the  larger  and  more  shapely ;  her  features 
are  regular,  and  her  hair  is  of  a  chestnut  color  that 
can  be  best  defined  as  ravishing.  Ida  is  decid- 
edly of  another  type ;  you  must  see  all  her  fea- 
tures together,  set  in  the  round  and  demure  frame 
of  her  delicate,  old-fashioned  face,  to  appreciate 
her  beauty ;  a  detailed  account,  lineament  by  lin- 
eament, will  give  no  adequate  conception.  How 
naturally  would  Ida  take  her  place  in  the  picture 
of  an  old-fashioned  garden,  teeming  with  the  flowers 
our  grandmothers  loved,  a  lilac  sunbonnet  on  her 
head,  a  watering-pot  in  her  hand. 

"  Won't  you  recite  something  ?  "  requests  Jane 
of  Adolph ;  "  father  says  you  used  to  be  an  actor." 

"  So  you  used  to  be  an  actor,"  smirks  Rounds. 
"  When  I  was  young  and  had  my  head  full  of  non- 
sense, I  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage  too." 

"As  a  stage  carpenter?"  asks  Adolph  quietly. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT  65 

"  No,  not  as  a  stage  carpenter,"  snaps  Sounds, 
which  is  all  he  can  snap. 

"  I  vill  someding  recite,"  shouts  Vogel.  "  4  De 
Song  von  de  Bell,'  von  de  great  Scherman  poet, 
Schiller." 

Before  Adolph  can  prevent  it,  he  is  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  parlor,  yelling  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  tearing  his  hair  and  stamping.  I  regret  to 
say  that  he  has  this  long  dramatic  lyric  entirely  by 
heart,  and  that  he  never  stops  before  he  reaches 
the  last  word  in  the  last  line.  He  is  deluded  by 
the  idea  that  he  can  imitate  the  sound  of  a  ringing 
bell  to  perfection.  I  don't  mind  how,  half  so  much 
as  when,  he  recites  it.  His  favorite  hour  for  elocu- 
tion is  after  midnight. 

Jane  and  Eounds  have  slipped  out  of  the  room 
on  tiptoe ;  Ida  blushes  in  shame  at  her  sister's 
lack  of  politeness ;  Adolph  appears  confused  and 
ill  at  ease. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  crept  out  of  a  chimney," 
whispers  Jane  to  Rounds  in  the  hall.  "  He  thinks 
that  he  gave  you  a  very  smart  answer,  but  he  ain't 
half  so  smart  as  he  thinks  he  is.  I  like  to  see  you 
and  him  together,  it  makes  you  show  to  such  good 
advantage.  Why  don't  you  come  down  to  the 
store  to  see  me?  That  floor-walker,  Simpson, 
thinks  he  can  dress.  My !  a  perfect  fright.  You 
can  tell  that  he  's  a  ten-dollar  a  week  man  a  mile 
off.  Pull  down  your  tie ;  it 's  up  just  a  wee  bit  too 
high.  There,  I  '11  fix  it." 

"  I M  like  to  break  his  confounded  neck,"  snarls 
Rounds. 


66  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  I  would  n't  bother  with  him  ;  he 's  too  far  be- 
low you,  dearie.  My,  I  said  '  dearie,'  did  n't  I  ? 
If  ever  I  meant  to !  "  She  takes  time  to  blush  and 
then  steams  on  again.  "  There 's  that  girl  behind 
the  ribbon  counter,  just  back  of  me  ;  she  passed  the 
remark  the  other  day  that  she  'could  be  pretty, 
too,  if  she  cared  to  use  rouge.'  I  would  n't  give 
her  the  satisfaction  of  letting  her  know  that  I  think 
of  her  —  the  hateful  thing !  "  Trust  the  weakness 
of  a  woman  to  find  out  the  weaknesses  of  man. 

Vogel  sits  down  at  last,  the  perspiration  stream- 
ing from  him.  In  his  excitement  he  has  not  noted 
the  diminution  of  his  audience.  "  Fine  vas  it  not  ? 
A  grand  ding !  De  Schermans  und  de  Amerikins 
vas  de  greatest  poets  in  de  vorld.  Ven  Schiller 
vas  alive  I  void  send  him  a  bell  von  vood  made 
und  carved  vines  mit;  und  playing  in  de  vines 
anschels  should  be.  Und  de  last  anschel  he  carry 
a  rose  vich  I  carve  mein  name  on :  '  Mit  de  gom- 
pliments  von  Rudolph  Vogel,  de  great  carver,  zu 
Friedrich  von  Schiller,  de  great  poet.'  I  make  him 
fine." 

"  Now  it 's  your  turn,"  says  Ida  to  Adolph ; 
"  surely  you  would  n't  let  your  father  go  away  with 
all  the  honors  ?  " 

"  I  am  quite  willing  that  my  father  should  have 
all  the  honor  he  has  won,"  he  replies  equivocally. 

My  wife  and  I  enter  our  plea  with  that  of  Ida. 
Finally  Adolph  consents ;  he  recites  "  The  Song  of 
the  Shirt."  As  he  recited  in  his  full  deep  voice, 
aquiver  with  emotion  and  feeling,  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  he  stirred  us  all.  It  thrilled  me  ;  it  car- 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT  67 

ried  me  away ;  it  sent  the  blood  swirling  through 
my  veins ;  it  made  my  heart  beat  with  the  energy 
of  youth. 

All  the  agony  of  the  poor  and  the  downtrodden 
was  voiced  in  those  lines.  Poor  Ida  !  "  The  Song 
of  the  Shirt "  is  the  story  of  her  life. 

He  is  done.  For  a  time  we  are  too  moved  to 
speak.  I  break  the  silence  with,  — 

"  One  must  be  old  and  hopeless,  to  appreciate 
those  lines." 

"  One  must  be  young  and  have  dreams,  to  appre- 
ciate those  lines,"  says  he. 

"  One  must  be  a  mother  and  have  daughters  who 
stitch,  stitch  their  lives  away,  to  appreciate  those 
lines,"  says  mother. 

We  glance  at  Ida.  Her  lips  are  compressed ; 
she  says  nothing.  She  would  spare  us  the  pain  of 
hearing  the  phrasing  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Vat  I  say,"  exclaims  Vogel  triumphantly,  "  de 
Schermans  und  de  Amerikins  vas  de  greatest  poets 
in  de  vorld  !  " 

We  find  relief  for  our  high-strung  nerves  in 
laughter. 

"The  man  who  wrote  that  must  have  known 
what  poverty  was  ;  he  must  have  felt  its  sting  and 
experienced  its  humiliation,"  I  ventured  after  the 
laughter  had  died  away. 

"  Poverty  exiled  him  and  his  family  from  their 
country,"  Adolph  informs  us.  "  He  said  that  '  if 
the  queen  would  give  him  a  grant,  he  would  accept 
for  his  coat  of  arms  a  heart  pierced  with  a  needle 
threaded  with  silver  tears.'  " 


68  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  Those  verses  should  be  sung  in  the  sweatshop 
to  the  whir  of  the  machines,"  said  I. 

"  They  should  be  sung  to  the  march  of  the 
socialist,"  cried  he. 

"  They  should  be  choired  to  the  music  in  the 
churches  of  the  rich,"  suggested  mother.  I 
thought  mother's  suggestion  the  best. 

Adolph  draws  his  chair  near  to  Ida's  and  whis- 
pers, "  Forgive  me.  Had  I  stopped  to  reflect  how 
intimately  the  poem  is  related  with  your  life,  be- 
lieve me,  I  would  never  have  recited  it  to-night." 

"  It 's  quite  unlike  you  to  ask  forgiveness  for 
anything.  But  there  is  nothing  to  forgive.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  that  poem  touched  me.  It  puts 
in  words  what  I  have  felt  a  thousand  times  and 
been  unable  to  express.  I  hope  you  will  recite  it 
again.  I  am  anxious  to  learn  it." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  teach  you." 

"  You  are  unusually  obliging  to-night." 

"  It 's  just  my  way." 

"  But  it  is  n't  always  your  way." 

Perhaps  because  he  took  the  reprimand  in  good 
part  and  without  retort,  she  was  prompted  to  say : 

"  You  will  be  a  great  man  some  day." 

"  Hm !  You  say  that  merely  because  I  have  been 
unusually  obliging." 

"  That 's  the  reason  why  I  tell  you  so ;  but  it 's 
not  the  reason  why  I  think  so.  You  put  so  much 
heart  and  feeling  into  those  lines.  You  showed 
your  real  self  to-night ;  just  the  opposite  —  no,  not 
the  opposite,  but  different  than  you  have  been  try- 
ing to  appear." 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT  69 

"  How  profoundly  you  have  studied  me." 

"  No,  I  found  that  all  out  without  any  study." 

"  Nevertheless,  feeling  and  heart  don't  make  a 
man  great." 

"  But  they  help ;  besides,  you  have  other  quali- 
ties." 

"  It  seems  that  you  have  made  a  great  many  dis- 
coveries lately.  When  did  you  find  all  this  out  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  just  when  I  found  it  out ;  I 
have  always  thought  so  more  or  less.  I  am  only  a 
simple  little  girl  who  stays  at  home  and  sews,  but 
I  feel  sometimes  when  I  am  talking  to  you  as  I  do 
when  I  go  to  church,  with  the  quiet,  the  great  win- 
dows, the  prayer  and  all." 

"  You  take  me  by  surprise.  I  never  should  have 
guessed  all  this  from  your  manner.  You  took  good 
care  to  cover  your  awe  under  a  heavy  cloak  of 
pertness." 

"  We  have  both  been  acting  a  part,  you  know." 

"  I  declare  I  have  n't.  I  never  act.  I  always 
speak  out  what  I  feel." 

"  Not  always.  Sometimes  you  speak  to  hide 
what  you  feel.  Confess  now,  if  I  hadn't  been 
pert,  to  use  your  word,  —  I  suppose  it  means  the 
same  as  saucy,  — you  would  n't  have  had  a  minute's 
time  for  me." 

"  I  never  considered  patience  one  of  my  virtues." 

"  You  dodge  and  turn  on  your  tracks  so  quickly 
that  I  can't  keep  up  with  you." 

"  You  remind  me  of  the  people  who  try  to  find 
deep  allegories  in  the  stories  of  the  nurseries.  You 
seem  bound  to  twist  me  into  a  puzzle." 


70  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  No,  you  never  were  a  puzzle  to  me ;  but  you 
do  try  to  conceal  yourself." 

"  But  I  have  nothing  to  conceal." 

"  Nothing  but  good." 

"  How  glad  I  am  that  I  recited  '  The  Song  of 
the  Shirt ; '  it  makes  you  so  unusually  compli- 
mentary." 

"  I  might  have  been  so  long  ago  if  you  had  given 
me  half  a  chance.  I  would  have  been  so  the  first 
time  I  met  you." 

"  You  startle  me.  And  why  a  compliment  when 
we  met  first  ?  " 

"  Father  told  me  something ;  and  I  saw  some- 
thing. To  be  perfectly  frank,  since  we  have 
started  to  be  so,  I  "  — 

"  I  never  was  otherwise.  I  regretted  that  I  had 
been  too  frank  at  times." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that  you  regret  it. 
But  on  account  of  those  two  things  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  know  you." 

He  looked  reflective. 

"  Well,  are  n't  you  curious  ?  are  n't  you  even 
going  to  ask  me  what  they  are  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  think  what  you  could 
have  complimented  me  for." 

"  I  shan't  tell  you ;  you  're  not  half  curious 
enough." 

Of  a  sudden  Vogel  sounds  the  trumpet  of  his 
greatness  most  vociferously,  compelling  universal 
attention. 

"  Which  of  you  girls,"  asks  Adolph,  after  the 
trumpet  has  ceased  its  fanfaronade, "  inherits  your 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   SHIRT  71 

father's  talent  for  music  ?  It  is  my  turn  for  ask- 
ing a  question  now." 

"  I  nave  my  father's  taste ;  I  love  music  dearly." 

"  Then  you  play  well.  Why  did  n't  you  play 
to-night?" 

"  I  hardly  play  well  enough." 

"  I  don't  believe  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  talk  as  if  you  did  n't  believe  it  your- 
self." 

"  To  be  truthful  —  I  suppose  you  think  me  very 
conceited  —  I  used  to  think  that  I  had  talent.  I 
was  quite  sure  that  I  had  talent  when  I  stopped." 

"  Why  did  you  stop,  then  ?  "  His  eyes  go  bor- 
ing, boring  through  her.  One  must  either  tell  the 
truth  or  remain  silent  when  those  eyes  rest  on  one 
in  that  fashion. 

"  I  did  n't  want  father  to  find  it  out.  1  knew 
that  he  could  n't  afford  to  indulge  it,  and  he  would 
have  been  made  unhappy  by  the  thought  that 
through  fault  of  his  my  talent  was  going  to  seed." 

"Perhaps  you  did  yourself  an  injustice.  He 
would  have  taught  you  himself." 

"  But  in  the  mean  time  who  would  do  my  sew- 
ing ?  It  requires  hours  and  hours  of  practice,  you 
know.  Besides,  there  was  nothing  to  tell  me  that 
I  had  talent  —  I  merely  thought  so." 

"  So  you  have  buried  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  never  touch  the  piano.  When  you  read 
those  two  lines, 

*  Sewing  at  once  with  a  double  thread, 
A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt,' 


72  POOR  PEOPLE 

it  made  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat  —  so  many  of  us  sew 
with  a  double  thread." 

"  You  have  stitched  your  ambition  away,  have 
you,  —  sewing  it  in,  bit  by  bit,  with  your  work  ?  " 

She  gives  no  response,  that  rather  sad  and  de- 
mure expression  crossing  her  face,  which  is  her 
natural  expression  during  quiescence.  The  young 
people  deemed  me  too  absorbed  in  Vogel  to  pay 
any  heed  to  them.  I  overheard  every  word.  I 
hate  eavesdropping.  It  serves  me  right  that  I 
should  have  heard  no  good  of  myself.  Dear,  dear 
little  Ida,  how  long  does  it  take  a  father  to  know 
his  daughter. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  hear  one  of  your 
plays  ;  you  promised  to  read  one  to  me.  I  imagine 
that  they  are  very  much  like  the  poem  you  recited, 
full  of  love  and  sympathy  for  poor  people."  She 
laid  stress  on  the  last  two  words,  with  an  accent 
that  was  almost  pathetic. 

"  Poor  People  !  Poor  People !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  That 's  the  very  title  I  need  for  my  play.  Yes, 
yes,  Poor  People!  So  you  see  that  the  simple 
girl  who  stays  at  home  and  sews  has  helped  me 
after  all." 

There  was  no  need  of  speech;  her  face  beto- 
kened the  joy  she  felt  at  being  able  to  help  him  in 
such  a  noble  enterprise. 

"You  must  come  down  some  morning,  when  I 
am  alone  and  sewing,  to  read  your  play  to  me." 

"  Won't  it  interfere  with  your  work  ?  " 

"  No,  I  work  quickest  when  I  forget  that  I  am 
working.  But  I  shan't  give  you  any  opinions 


THE   SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT  73 

of  my  own.  It  would  be  ridiculous  for  me  to  pre- 
sume. I  am  entirely  selfish  in  the  request ;  I  am 
only  considering  my  own  enjoyment." 

"  But  you  may  help  me.  You  have  feeling  and 
heart ;  I  can  tell  that  from  your  voice." 

"  You  are  paying  me  back  in  my  own  coin." 

"  It  is  the  best  coin  in  the  world." 

Vogelhas  been  trying  to  telegraph  his  son  a  signal 
for  departure ;  finally  Adolph  deciphers  the  mes- 
sage. He  arises  and  clasps  Ida's  hand.  I  wonder 
if  mother  saw  the  glance  that  passed  between  them. 
It  was  one  of  those  deep,  yearning  glances  that 
express  more  than  hours  of  talk.  One  should  be 
very  careful  whom  one  invites  to  one's  home.  We 
generally  lock  our  front  doors  after  our  daughters 
are  gone. 

Mother  has  retired.  She  kissed  Ida  good-night 
with  no  more  than  her  usual  affection.  No,  mother 
did  not  see  that  glance ;  blind  are  those  who  see, 
sometimes. 

"  Ida,"  remarked  I,  when  we  were  alone,  "  how 
ugly  that  young  man  is." 

"  But  what  a  beautiful  voice  he  has,  father." 

"  How  small  his  eyes  are,  regular  rabbit's  eyes, 
I  am  sure." 

"Yes,  but  how  full  of  expression  they  are. 
Why,  they  talk." 

"  What  a  thin  little  body." 

«  What  a  great  heart." 

"  Ida,  dear,  you  are  blushing,  actually  blushing. 
What  did  I  say  to  make  you  blush  ?  " 

She  presses  her  left  cheek  against  my  right  one 


74  POOR  PEOPLE 

in  order  that  she  can  hide  her  face  from  me  with- 
out appearing  to  do  so  ;  but  she  cannot  conceal  the 
warm  glow  from  me. 

She  saw  him  mount  the  stairs  with  his  drunken 
father  clinging  to  his  neck ;  I  told  her  how  he  had 
cowed  the  brutal  smith;  she  heard  him  recite 
"  The  Song  of  the  Shirt ;  "  I  fear  he  has  won  her 
without  wooing. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  THE   LIGHTS   ARE   OUT 

ADOLPH  had  touched  a  chord  in  Ida's  heart 
that  had  lain  slumbering  and  voiceless.  The  heart 
is  a  violin;  its  musical  capabilities  may  remain 
unknown  forever  if  a  deft  hand  draw  not  the  bow 
across  its  strings.  The  heart  may  rest  dumb  as  a 
flute  suspended ;  but  let  love  breathe  into  it,  and 
what  melodies  come  pouring  forth  !  The  heart  is 
a  vase  that  may  stand  empty  and  dust-covered  in  a 
secluded  nook ;  perchance  Dan  Cupid  may  stumble  -• 
upon  it  and  confide  one  of  his  roses  to  its  keeping. 
The  heart  is  —  well,  what  a  curious  thing  the  hu- 
man heart  is,  anyway. 

Ida  lay  awake  late  that  night.  She  had  no  more 
than  closed  her  eyes  when  Jane  came  in;  she 
touched  her  sister  gently.  Ida  awoke. 

"  Just  getting  home  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Where  were  you  ?  " 

"  Hush,  Ida ;  I  don't  want  the  folks  to  hear ; 
you  '11  wake  them  the  first  thing  you  know.  We 
went  to  the  theatre." 

"  You  were  rude  to  slip  out  when  Herr  Vogel 
was  reciting." 

"  I  had  to  go  out  or  die  from  the  giggles.  Is  n't 
he  kiUing,  though  ?  " 


76  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  It  was  funny  to  hear  him  shout  away  in  his 
German  when  we  could  n't  understand  him ;  but 
he  is  an  old  man,  and  we  owe  all  old  people  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  respect." 

"  Stop  preaching.  You  are  a  regular  complaint 
office.  You  can  go  to  sleep  again  if  you  are  going 
to  play  head  of  the  department.  I  didn't  wake 
you  up  for  that." 

"  Did  you  wake  me  up  ?  " 

"Yes,  certainly." 

"  You  usually  do  your  best  not  to." 

"  I  know,  but  to-night  is  different." 

Ida  sat  upright.  "  I  can  guess.  Give  me  three 
guesses  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  dare  ;  I  'm  going  to  tell  you.  I  'm 
engaged  !  Whoop !  "  And  Jane  gave  a  scream 
and  a  jump,  bounding  into  her  sister's  arms. 

"I  know  who  it  is,"  Ida  managed  to  bring 
out. 

"  Don't  you  dare  guess.     It 's  "  — 

"  Bounds,"  shouted  Ida. 

"  You  're  a  mean  thing.     Kiss  me  again." 

Despite  separation  in  character  and  divergence 
in  taste,  the  sisters  had  a  genuine  affection  for 
each  other.  Jane  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  with 
Ida's  arm  about  her  waist.  Ida  was  naturally  the 
weaker  of  the  two,  the  more  delicate,  the  more 
tender.  She  would  have  leaned  on  Jane  for  sup- 
port and  guidance  had  not  a  long  and  bitter  ex- 
perience taught  her  to  stand  alone.  Hardship, 
necessity,  pride,  often  form  the  inner  and  invisible 
stay  of  the  most  vacillating  characters.  The  oak 


WHEN  THE  LIGHTS  ARE  OUT  77 

and  the  ivy  of  the  forest  find  their  counterparts  in 
the  sustaining  and  the  clinging  qualities  of  the 
human  soul. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  Ida  proceeded  to  ask. 

"Why,  it  didn't  happen;  I  just  brought  it 
about." 

"  What  courage  you  have,  Jane."  She  did  have 
brazenness  in  plenitude. 

" It  didn't  require  any  courage.  It  was  just  as 
easy  as  selling  toilet  goods  and  a  good  deal  easier ; 
it  don't  require  half  the  brains.  We  went  to  the 
theatre,  you  know,  after  we  slipped  out.  There 
was  a  loving  couple  in  the  play.  Say,  Ida,  would  n't 
you  like  to  see  a  play  once  with  the  loving  couple 
left  out  ?  Well,  this  loving  couple  was  as  moony 
as  the  new  moon.  Did  it  as  if  they  were  paid  for 
it  —  about  five  a  week,  I  guess.  They  were  en- 
gaged about  ten  o'clock,  when  the  curtain  went 
down.  On  the  way  home  I  asked  Will  —  I  call 
him  Will  now  —  how  he  liked  the  couple.  Then 
I  asked  him  if  all  plays  ought  n't  to  end  that  way. 
I  led  up  to  it  with  a  lot  of  tact,  you  see.  After- 
wards I  asked  him  if  it  was  n't  a  nice  way  to  end 
an  evening.  A  poser,  was  n't  it  ?  He  hawed  and 
hemmed  a  minute  and  said  that  he  guessed  that  it 
was.  No,  he  did  n't  say,  '  this  is  rather  sudden,' 
like  the  girl  in  the  play.  He  half  expected  it ;  he 
has  been  for  a  long  time." 

Jane's  shoes  were  off;  her  nightgown  on;  she 
blew  the  light  out  and  popped  into  bed. 

"Where  was  I?  Oh,  yes;  if  I  hadn't  helped 
him  propose  I  presume  he  would  have  done  it 


78  POOR  PEOPLE 

alone;  but  then  I  don't  think  it  any  more  than 
right  that  a  woman  do  her  share.  It  concerns  her 
just  as  much  as  the  man.  He  can  take  care  of  me 
in  style,  too.  What  do  you  think  he  is  going  to 
do?  He  has  started  a  factory  for  making  new 
furniture.  It 's  a  great  thing,  so  he  says.  Oh ! 
he 's  business  right  up  to  the  handle.  If  he  gets 
rich,  and  he  says  he  will,  you  '11  see  me  drive  up 
to  the  store  in  my  carriage.  I  '11  make  the  red- 
haired  girl  at  the  ribbon  counter  stare  her  eyes 
out.  I  can  just  hear  her  whisper  to  Miss  Briggs 
at  the  glove  counter,  « Rouge  did  it.'  I  '11  buy  my 
ribbons  from  her." 

Ida  was  listening  but  indifferently  well  to  this 
chatter ;  her  mind  was  traveling  afar. 

"'Are  these  the  best  you  have?'  I'll  ask. 
'  Yes,  ma'm,'  she  '11  answer.  '  Well,  I  '11  have  two 
yards  of  the  mauve.  Have  the  cash  girl  hurry, 
please.  Is  n't  it  hard  work  to  stand  on  your  feet 
all  day  ? '  '  Yes,  ma'm.'  '  How  slow  that  cash  girl 
is,  and  I  'm  in  a  dreadful  hurry.  I  might  look  at 
that  cerise.  Kindly  postpone  that  talk  with  the 
young  man.  I  '11  have  to  speak  to  the  floor- walker 
if  you  are  not  more  attentive  to  the  wants  of  your 
customers.'  'Yes,  ma'm;  sorry,  ma'm.  Cash! 
Cash  ! '  I  '11  make  them  all  know  their  place,  I 
can  tell  you." 

"  Jane,  do  you  really  love  Mr.  Rounds  ?  " 

"You  always  ask  sentimental  questions.  I 
have  n't  asked  myself  that  yet.  I  can  learn  to 
love  him,  though.  I  would  love  any  man  that 
takes  me  away  from  that  store ;  I  'm  tired  to  death 


WHEN  THE  LIGHTS  ARE  OUT  79 

of  it ;  you  might  just  as  well  be  a  clock  and  be 
paid  with  a  key  for  telling  the  time." 

Jane  yawned,  and  held  her  peace  for  a  minute 
or  two. 

"Ida,  you  ought  to  go  out  more  and  get  ac- 
quainted ;  you  are  becoming  a  regular  window 
rose.  I  don't  think  that  you  ever  gave  yourself 
time  to  care  for  a  man,  have  you  ?  You  '11  go  on 
sewing  and  sewing  forever,  if  you  don't  keep  your 
eyes  open  for  a  good  chance.  I  knew  that  Rounds 
was  an  ambitious  man  and  bound  to  get  up  the 
moment  that  I  saw  him." 

"  I  do  care  for  somebody,  Jane." 

"  You  do !     Since  when  ?  " 

"  To-night." 

"  Since  to-night !     It  came  sudden,  did  n't  it?  " 

"  No,  I  have  liked  him  for  some  time." 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?     It  can't  be  "  — 

"Yes,  it's  Adolph." 

"  Adolph !     That  monkey !  " 

"Hush,  Jane."  She  patted  her  sister's  cheek 
gently. 

"  Excuse  me,  Ida  ;  I  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  you, 
but  how  in  the  world  can  any  woman  like  him  ?  " 

"  How  can  any  woman  help  it  ?  " 

"  Easy  enough.  What 's  there  to  him  ?  He  's 
ugly  as  a  chimney-sweep  and  poor  as  a  church 
mouse  on  week  days." 

"  Did  you  ever  talk  to  him  ?  " 

"  No,  and  I  don't  care  to.  I  'd  like  to  see  any 
man  get  me  with  talk.  No,  ma'm,  there  has  to  be 
something  else  to  him.  I  never  dreamed  of  such 


80  POOR  PEOPLE 

a  thing.  He  's  the  last  man  that  I  would  have 
thought  of  for  you." 

"  He  has  a  fine  mind  and  the  best  of  hearts." 

"  That  may  all  be,  but  what  good'  is  it  ?  Will 
it  give  you  a  home  ?  Will  it  save  you  from  sew- 
ing every  day  of  your  life  until  your  back  aches  ?  " 

"  That 's  the  last  thing  that  I  thought  of ;  it 
never  entered  my  mind." 

"  How  foolish  you  are,  Ida.  How  can  you  be 
that  way?  It 's  the  first  thing  that  I  thought  of." 

"  We  look  at  things  so  differently,  Jane." 

"  Of  course,  that 's  because  you  have  had  less 
experience  in  the  world.  But  you  will  look  at 
it  the  way  that  I  do  before  long.  Don't  let  your- 
self think  of  him  and  you  will  forget  him  soon 
enough." 

"  It  is  n't  that  serious.  I  like  to  think  of  him, 
and  why  should  n't  I  ?  " 

Jane  laughed.  "  It  will  last  a  week  ;  perhaps 
two." 

"I  don't  think  that  I  shall  ever  cease  to  like 
him  and  regard  him  highly." 

"  I  've  heard  other  girls  talk  that  way." 

"  But  other  girls  are  n't  me." 

"  No,  but  they  are  like  you." 

"  But  I  never  met  any  young  man  like  Adolph. 
Those  around  here  are  altogether  different ;  they 
act  and  talk  so  differently  —  just  as  if  they  came 
from  a  different  race  of  beings.  They  are  coarse 
and  rough  and  without  any  education  or  refine- 
ment. I  feel  a  shrinking  sometimes  when  they 
touch  my  hand.  But  I  like  to  talk  to  Adolph ;  I 


WHEN  THE  LIGHTS  ARE  OUT  81 

learn  so  much  from  him.  It  sharpens  my  wits  to 
be  around  him.  I  can  argue  and  talk  with  him 
by  the  hour  without  getting  tired." 

"  B-o-s-h,"  yawned  Jane. 

Sleep  ended  the  discussion. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  UNEMPLOYED 

WHEN  I  reached  home  I  opened  the  envelope 
that  they  had  given  me  at  the  office.  Besides 
my  salary  (I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you  how  small  it 
was)  a  little  slip  of  paper  dropped  out  which  con- 
tained a  few  words  to  the  effect  that  the  firm  of 
Marshall  &  Co.  would  no  longer  require  my  ser- 
vices. Here  was  brevity  without  any  soul.  I  have 
always  considered  the  best  style  the  shortest  dis- 
tance between  two  points.  The  author  drove  to 
his  meaning  with  a  dash,  without  a  single  turn  to 
right  or  left.  If  the  same  idea  had  been  expanded 
to  a  book,  the  irony,  the  pathos,  and  the  grim 
humor  would  have  been  lost  on  the  reader. 

My  wife  was  standing  by  when  I  opened  the 
envelope  that  sealed  my  fate. 

"Thomas,"  asked  Mathilda,  "what  is  in  that 
envelope  ?  " 

"  Only  money,"  answered  I. 

"  But  you  looked  so  funny." 

"  But  money  is  such  a  funny  thing." 

"  But  I  could  never  see  the  funny  side  to  it." 

"  People  who  live  by  their  wits  do." 

"  People  who  starve  for  lack  of  wit  don't." 

"  That 's  because  money  has  two  sides  to  it.     I 


THE  UNEMPLOYED  83 

should  like  to  present  a  design  for  coins  to  the 
government ;  on  the  reverse  would  be  a  man 
laughing,  on  the  obverse  would  be  a  man  crying. 
The  man  who  has  money  shows  the  crying  side  to 
the  man  who  has  none,  whilst  he  looks  at  the 
laughing  side  himself." 

My  wife  smiled  faintly.  "  It 's  the  root  of  all 
evil,  Thomas ;  so  much  is  certain." 

"  Yes,  but  see  what  good  things  come  from  the 
tree ! " 

I  sparred  simply  to  gain  time.  The  truth  will 
have  to  be  told,  but  there  is  no  especial  hurry  — 
the  truth  is  accustomed  to  being  kept  in  waiting. 
It  might  be  better  to  tell  a  falsehood.  No,  I  shall 
tell  the  truth  after  supper.  What  right  have  I 
to  make  my  family  lose  their  appetite  merely 
because  I  have  lost  my  situation  ? 

After  dining  we  stepped  into  the  parlor  to  play 
our  evening's  game  of  pedro.  Without  a  word  I 
handed  my  wife  the  slip.  It  told  the  whole  story 
far  better  than  I  could. 

"  I  knew  what  it  contained  before  you  showed  it 
to  me,"  she  said,  her  dear  face  sadly  sweet. 

"  How  could  you  have  known  it,  Mathilda  ?  " 

"  By  your  whole  demeanor." 

Wisely  did  the  Greek  sage  say,  "  Man,  know  v 
thyself ;  "  to  know  woman  is  impossible  for  man  ; 
equally  impossible  for  woman  to  know  herself,  I 
might  add. 

"  They  are  ingrates,  after  those  long  years  of 
faithful  service,"  she  remarked  after  a  long  pause. 

"  And  after  you  made  all  their  money  for  them," 


84  POOR  PEOPLE 

subjoined  Ida.  If  the  firm  thought  my  services  as 
valuable  as  Ida  did,  I  should  have  had  an  enormous 
salary. 

"Do  as  little  as  you  can  and  get  as  much  as 
you  can,"  was  the  reflection  of  Jane,  "  for  they  all 
want  as  much  as  they  can  get  for  as  little  as  they 
can  pay." 

"  Don't  worry,  dad,"  came  from  Ida  again ; 
"  we  can  live  on  so  little."  What  it  is  to  be  young 
and  in  love ! 

"  I  have  two  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank,  and 
that  will  last  easily  until  you  find  a  situation.  I 
have  put  something  aside  for  a  rainy  day."  Ma- 
thilda smiled  —  her  smile,  there  is  none  like  it 
under  the  sun. 

"  You  must  have  expected  a  deluge,  and  a  long 
one,"  remarked  I,  "  and  that  is  why  you  have 
thought  your  old  dresses  and  bonnets  good  enough." 

"  And  then  there  is  the  opera,"  suggested  Ida ; 
"you  will  have  time  to  dispose  of  that  now." 

"  I  am  going  to  get  married  within  a  week," 
put  in  Jane,  "  and  a  rich  man  ought  to  expect  to 
do  something  to  help  his  wife's  poor  family," 

"  Has  n't  any  one  a  word  of  reproach  or  blame  ?  " 
I  asked.  "  Don't  you  think  that  I  deserve  some 
reprimand  for  dragging  all  of  you  into  poverty 
and  distress  ?  " 

Mathilda  —  "  Nonsense." 

Ida  — "What  an  idea." 

Jane  —  "  B-o-s-h." 

We  played  cards  just  as  if  it  were  a  settled 
thing  that  I  was  to  go  to  work  on  the  morrow  as 


THE  UNEMPLOYED  85 

usual.  I  glanced  up  suddenly  to  peer  at  my  wife's 
face.  I  caught  her  off  guard.  Alas  !  the  drawn 
and  drooping  expression  of  her  mouth  showed  but 
too  plainly  the  worry  she  felt  and  was  too  brave  to 
express.  At  my  time  in  life  it  is  no  small  matter 
to  lose  a  small  salary. 

She  caught  my  eyes  resting  on  hers.  "  Thomas," 
she  scolded,  "  you  are  n't  paying  any  attention  to 
the  game." 

What  is  a  man  to  do  with  such  a  wife  ?  And 
she  is  too  old  to  reform. 

Three  whole  days  have  passed  since  I  lost  my 
situation  —  the  longest  three  days  in  my  whole  ex- 
istence. Leisure  is  a  blessed  thing  for  those  who 
are  too  busy  to  get  it.  The  muse  of  music  has 
quite  deserted  me;  she  seems  to  think  that  be- 
cause I  am  no  longer  employed  all  day  I  am 
in  no  need  of  her  consolation  by  night.  I  start 
towards  the  office  mechanically,  then  I  turn  round 
and  come  home.  Ida  has  tried  to  make  me  believe 
that  I  am  of  great  assistance  to  her  in  that  I  can 
now  take  her  work  to  the  sweat-shop  and  bring 
her  bundles  back  ;  but  I  know  I  am  depriving  her 
of  a  pleasure  which  broke  the  monotony  of  her 
toil. 

I  answered  an  advertisement  to-day  for  a  billing 
clerk.  My  letter  must  have  been  satisfactory,  for 
they  wrote  me  to  call  next  day ;  but  the  moment 
the  writer  saw  me  he  shook  his  head.  I  was  too 
old ;  they  wanted  a  young  man.  What  will  the 
world  do  when  all  young  men  grow  old  ? 

The  other  morning,  unbeknown  to  my  family,  I 


86  POOR  PEOPLE 

slipped  the  opera  under  my  arm  and  started  out  in 
search  of  a  manager  —  a  duty  that  I  have  been 
postponing  for  years.  Poverty  is  the  dread  enemy 
of  timidity.  I  walked  up  to  the  theatre,  then  I 
continued  my  stroll.  When  I  regained  my  cour- 
age I  turned  back.  I  repeated  the  operation  three 
times.  Had  it  not  been  for  a  sudden  gust  of 
bravery  I  might  be  strolling  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  theatre  entrance  yet.  I  told  the  young  man 
in  the  box-office  what  my  quest  was.  Smiling 
broadly,  he  told  me  to  betake  myself  to  the  man- 
ager on  the  third  floor,  elevator.  I  wonder  why 
he  smiled  ?  Wait  until  he  reaches  five  and  sixty 
and  his  clothes  are  shiny  and  shabby  —  maybe  his 
diffidence  will  be  laughable  too. 

I  found  the  manager ;  not,  however,  before  I  had 
arranged  my  coat  and  dusted  my  hat  in  the  hall- 
way. A  good  appearance  is  everything  in  dispos- 
ing of  an  opera.  He  was  a  man  of  some  years,  so 
I  took  heart  and  told  him  without  much  ado  what 
I  desired.  He  was  gruff  at  first,  but  gradually  he 
waxed  friendly  and  sympathetic.  It  seems  that 
an  opera  is  n't  of  any  momentary  value  unless  it 
be  written  by  a  person  of  reputation,  and  that 
there  are  already  too  many  in  the  market  (just 
like  clerks),  and  that  it  costs  a  fortune  to  produce 
them.  A  great  deal  of  the  knowledge  which  he 
imparted  was  quite  new  to  me,  and  I  told  him  so 
frankly,  adding  that  had  I  been  so  informed  I 
should  not  have  troubled  him.  He  smiled  and 
remarked  that  he  wished  there  were  more  people 
in  the  profession  like  me.  So  I  put  the  "En- 


THE   UNEMPLOYED  87 

chanted  Island  "  under  my  arm  and  left  the  lion's 
den  with  the  wisdom  of  a  Daniel.  Most  people 
who  paint  managers  at  all  paint  them  too  black. 
I  am  sure  that  if  they  accepted  all  the  plays  and 
operas  submitted  to  them  they  would  enjoy  a 
universal  popularity.  Indeed  who  would  be  left 
to  hate? 

When  I  returned  to  my  home  I  tried  to  hide 
the  manuscript  under  my  coat  in  such  a  manner 
that  Mathilda  could  n't  see  it.  Unfortunately,  as 
I  was  on  the  point  of  slipping  the  heavy  roll  into 
the  drawer  of  the  closet,  I  let  the  thing  drop  from 
my  hand  on  the  floor.  I  blushed  confusedly. 

"  Thomas,"  said  Mathilda,  "  I  fear  that  you  are 
growing  awkward ;  you  never  used  to  make  such 
a  noise  in  putting  your  coat  away." 

Dear  soul,  she  does  n't  think  I  know  that  she 
knows ;  but  it  is  very  difficult  for  an  old  wife  to 
fool  an  old  husband.  At  lunch  she  and  Ida  had 
much  to  say  on  the  discouragement  which  all  the 
great  musicians  had  to  undergo.  She  preached 
quite  a  delicate  little  sermon  on  the  text  of  perse- 
verance. My  wife  grows  better  with  age ;  I  can 
see  an  improvement  each  day ;  how  I  hate  to  think 
of  the  time  of  her  absolute  perfection. 

I  have  started  to  address  envelopes  at  the  rate 
of  seventy-five  cents  the  thousand ;  but  my  hand 
has  lost  its  cunning  and  moves  slowly,  and  my 
penmanship  is  not  of  the  most  legible.  It  cost 
two  days'  labor  to  finish  the  first  ten  hundred. 
The  contractor  paid  me  for  my  work ;  but  in  the 
kindest  manner  he  refused  to  assign  me  a  second 


88  POOR  PEOPLE 

lot.  I  am  not  of  good  address,  I  fear.  To  be  old, 
to  be  useless,  to  be  poor  —  this  is  the  trilogy  of 
misfortune. 

This  is  the  first  day  of  a  new  week;  I  have 
turned  over  a  new  leaf.  I  have  turned  over  the 
same  leaf  so  often  on  the  first  day  of  the  year, 
the  first  day  of  the  month,  and  the  first  day  of  the 
week,  that  I  am  afraid  the  leaf  will  become  as 
wrinkled  and  dry  as  myself,  and  crumble.  How 
many  times  have  I  not  resolved  to  stop  smoking^ 
but  this  time  I  am  determined  to  give  it  up. 
After  thinking  it  over  for  the  last  three  hours 
(Oh,  how  I  miss  my  pipe !),  I  have  reached  the 
conclusion  that  smoking  is  an  unnecessary  habit ; 
this  very  minute  I  have  decided  that  it  is  quite  as 
unnecessary  as  sleeping  or  eating.  My  last  pipe- 
ful of  tobacco  was  smoked  yesterday,  and  I  can't 
bear  the  idea  of  using  mother's  money  to  purchase 
luxuries  when  we  ma^  need  the  necessaries  in  a 
short  time. 

"Thomas,"  said  Mathilda,  apparently  lost  in 
reflection,  "  I  miss  something  this  morning  and  I 
don't  know  what  it  is." 

I  was  about  to  say  that  I  missed  something  and 
I  knew  what  it  was,  but  instead  I  put  the  ques- 
tion, "  What  in  the  world  can  it  be  ?  " 

"  I  know  now,"  she  ejaculated  suddenly ;  "  it 's 
the  smell  of  tobacco.  Why,  you  have  n't  smoked 
this  morning." 

"  Indeed,"  quoth  I,  affecting  surprise,  "  I 
thought  you  missed  your  usual  whirl  through  the 
park  in  your  victoria." 


THE  UNEMPLOYED  89 

She  fastened  her  eyes  on  me  searchingly. 
"  Come  now,  Thomas,  why  are  n't  you  smoking  ?  " 

"  You  wished  me  to  give  it  up  when  we  were  first 
married,  and  I  have  been  delaying  it  long  enough ; 
if  I  put  it  off  longer  you  may  judge  me  inconsid- 
erate." 

"  Is  there  no  other  reason  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  hurt  my  health.  I  have  n't  slept  so 
well  of  late.  I  threw  all  the  tobacco  away  that  I 
had  last  night,  and  I  will  never  smoke  again.  I 
am  old  enough  to  exert  my  will  power,  and  I  mean 
to  do  it." 

She  evidently  believed  me  very  serious  in  my 
intention,  for  she  helped  me  put  temptation  out  of 
reach  by  bringing  a  large  package  of  the  weed 
home  from  the  market.  She  handed  it  to  me 
with,  "  A  reward  for  the  speedy  execution  of  my 
wishes." 

She  happened  to  hit  a  srood  mixture,  I  must 
admit,  although  it  was  a  li.  3  pungent.  Several 
times,  when  I  stopped  to  reflect,  it  drew  the  tears 
to  my  eyes ;  after  all,  the  fault  may  have  been 
with  my  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  FORTUNE-TELLER 

ON  the  fourth  floor  there  is  a  suite  of  two  rooms 
facing  the  street ;  from  the  window  hangs  a  sign, 
"  Madame  Van  Meer,  Fortune-Teller."  Poverty- 
stricken  neighborhoods  always  abound  with  tellers 
of  fortune.  It  is  one  of  the  ways  the  poor  have 
of  getting  rich. 

The  madame  is  a  short,  fat,  coarse-featured 
woman  who,  when  she  is  visible  at  all,  is  seen  in  a 
greasy  wrapper.  She  has  a  parrot  and  three  black 
cats.  She  is  the  kind  of  woman  who  goes  with 
a  parrot. 

Vogel's  faith  in  the  madame  began  from  the 
day  when  he  discovered  that  she  had  the  hardi- 
hood to  live  with  black  cats,  and  that  she  was 
seemingly  impervious  to  the  malevolence  which 
usually  follows  in  the  wake  of  black  felines.  He 
was  her  most  frequent  caller  and  her  worst  cus- 
tomer. He  invariably  tried  to  have  his  fortune 
told  for  nothing.  He  was  in  her  debt  for  a  bor- 
rowed dollar  and  the  telling  of  five  fortunes.  He 
had  paid  the  dollar  back  in  promises  a  thousand 
times ;  he  declared  his  willingness  to  pay  for  the 
five  fortunes  in  hard  cash  so  soon  as  one  of  them 
should  materialize. 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER  91 

For  a  long  time  Vogel  had  given  the  madame  a 
wide  berth ;  she  had  threatened  to  visit  him  with 
the  ten  plagues  the  last  time  he  had  paid  her  a 
professional  visit.  Life  was  already  teeming  with 
plagues  for  poor  Vogel,  and  he  had  no  desire  to 
tempt  the  misfortune  teller.  A  month  had  already 
passed  without  his  having  had  the  slightest  know- 
ledge as  to  what  his  fate  for  the  following  months 
would  be.  Vogel  is  constantly  on  the  lookout  for 
the  unexpected  which  never  happens.  Now  came  a 
long  series  of  f orewarnings  —  he  went  to  Madame 
Van  Meer  to  be  forearmed. 

The  madame  sat  talking  to  her  parrot  in  Dutch ; 
the  three  black  cats  were  frisking  about  her  feet 
and  pulling  at  the  end  of  her  bedraggled  wrapper. 
Vogel  perched  himself  on  one  foot,  rubbed  his 
hands,  and  opened  the  attack  with  a  volley  of  flat- 
tery. 

"  You  look  like  a  rose  your  wrapper  in.  You 
vas  de  von  voman  in  de  building  taste  und  refine- 
ment von." 

"  Come,  come,  Herr  Vogel,  you  have  told  me 
that  before." 

The  madame  had  been  susceptible  to  his  flattery 
only  too  often.  She  resolved  to  be  mail-clad  against 
it  this  time. 

"Veil,  should  I  not  tell  de  truth?  Ven  you 
look  like  a  rose  vas  it  mein  fault  ?  I  have  often 
told  mein  sohn — ven  you  don't  believe  it  you  vill 
him  ask  —  your  birds  und  cats  mit  you  remind  me 
de  picture  vat  I  hav  seen  de  queen  von  England 


92  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  I  hate  the  queen  of  England !  "  stormed  the 
woman. 

"  So  I  hate  her.     She  vas  ugly  und  fat." 

"  But  you  said  that  I  looked  like  her  ?  " 

"  Eh,"  queried  Yogel,  much  nonplused.  "  I  say 
dat  de  bird  und  de  cats  remind  me  de  queen  von." 

"  That 's  no  compliment  to  me." 

"  I  never  bay  gompliments ;  I  hate  it.  You  vill 
tell  me  mein  fortune  dis  morning,  vas  it  not  ?  " 

"  Did  you  bring  me  the  money  you  owe  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  it  mit." 

He  held  a  silver  dollar  and  a  half  dollar  in  his 
hand.  Her  eyes  glittered ;  this  was  just  a  dollar 
and  a  half  more  than  she  had  ever  seen  in  Vogel's 
hand  before. 

"  Sit  down."  She  took  a  deck  of  cards  from 
the  table. 

"  You  vill  send  de  black  cats  in  de  next  room, 
vill  you  not?" 

She  arose  from  her  seat,  opened  the  door,  and 
the  cats  defiled  from  Vogel's  presence. 

She  shuffled  the  worn  deck,  cut  it  with  her  left 
hand,  and  turning  the  cards  up  by  threes,  discard- 
ing all  but  the  triplets  of  the  same  suit,  she  finally 
appropriated  fifteen  cards.  In  ominous,  triune 
rows  there  lay  before  her  queens,  knaves,  aces, 
spades,  diamonds,  and  hearts. 

Vogel  made  an  effort  to  tempt  fortune  before  it 
should  be  too  late.  "  You  vill  make  it  gut,  eh  ? 
I  alvays  vas  de  friend  von  de  Danish  peeple.  De 
Danes  und  de  Schermans  vas  de  only  two  honest, 
hard-vorking  peeple  vat  der  vas." 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER  93 

"  I  hate  the  Danes ;  I  'm  Dutch,"  exclaimed  the 
reader  of  the  fates. 

"  I  mean  de  Dutch,  of  course  de  Dutch.  De 
Danes  vas  a  descheitful  peeple." 

She  began  to  count  seven  cards  from  right  to 
left.  "  Seven,"  cried  the  madame,  "  and  I  stop  at 
the  ace  of  spades.  Seven  again,  and  I  stop  at  the 
king  of  spades  —  that  signifies  a  shadow  in  a 
church.  Seven  once  more  and  for  the  last.  I 
stop  at  the  knave  of  spades ;  I  see  a  dark  form 
coming  to  you  in  the  church  ;  it  hangs  over  your 
shadow  on  the  right  wall  of  the  church.  The  form 
and  the  shadow  are  struggling.  See!  the  form 
has  swallowed  the  shadow.  You  will  die."  She 
had  learned  all  this  from  Vogel's  lips  ;  cards  have 
as  little  to  do  with  fortune-telling  as  the  future 
itself. 

Vogel  grew  pale  and  insisted  that  the  cards  were 
wrong ;  she  persisted  that  the  cards  were  right. 
He  had  come  thither  to  be  hocus-pocused  out  of 
the  bugbear  of  his  existence,  not  to  pay  for  being 
cheated  into  a  firmer  belief  therein. 

"  You  hav  a  mestake  made  ! " 

"  I  know  my  business,  I  guess,"  proclaimed  the 
prophetess  hotly. 

His  blue  eyes  waxed  green,  his  pale  face  flushed 
scarlet.  "  You  hav  scheated  de  cards  mit,  I  vill 
not  bay." 

"  You  won't  pay  me  ?"  She  lifted  herself  from 
her  seat  in  all  the  majesty  of  her  two  hundred 
pounds  avoirdupois,  odd. 

"Fur  vat?    I  knows  so  much  meinself.     De 


94  POOR  PEOPLE 

fortune-teller  must  tell  me  vat  I  don't  know ; 
to  tell  me  vat  I  knows,  dat  vas  not  fortune-tell- 
ing." 

"  I  'm  not  an  Egyptian  sorceress ;  I  'm  only  a 
fortune-teller;  I  can't  charm  the  cards."  She 
was  so  astonished  at  her  client's  audacity  that 
she  had  scarcely  breath  left  wherewith  to  speak. 

"  Den  I  goes  to  see  an  Esjyptian.  I  know  von. 
She  vas  a  friend  von  mine,  she  vill  scharm  de 
cards." 

The  madame's  cheeks  became  mottled  as  the 
parrot's  plumage.  "  They  are  a  pack  of  frauds 
and  quacks.  No  one  can  charm  the  cards ;  if  any 
one  could  do  it,  I  could.  Your  fortune  is  told  by 
the  cards,  and  all  we  can  do  is  to  read  it." 

"  But  der  vas  a  grand  mestake,  you  hav  played 
de  cards  mit." 

"  I  never  juggle  with  the  cards ;  that 's  unpro- 
fessional." 

"  I  dink  de  cards  a  mestake  hav  made.  You  vill 
try  dem  again,  eh  ?  " 

The  augur  became  perplexed.  If  she  remained 
firm  in  her  first  forecast,  she  was  in  danger  of  los- 
ing the  wage  due  her  for  past  as  well  as  for  pre- 
sent services ;  if  she  vacillated,  she  would  endan- 
ger her  reputation  for  infallibility.  She  chose  the 
former  course ;  the  latter  might  cost  her  fee  as  well 
as  her  reputation.  She  dealt  the  cards  again  and 
hurried  through  the  same  process. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  I  'm  right  ?  "  she  shouted 
with  conviction.  "  There  's  the  church ;  there 's 
the  shadow  —  a  long  black  shadow  on  the  right 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER  95 

wall,  and  there  's  the  shadow  being  swallowed  by 
the  form  —  which  is  death  !  " 

He  plucked  his  gray  hair  nervously,  his  eyes 
glued  to  the  cards.  "  Vat  I  say,"  he  exclaimed 
triumphantly,  "  I  be  not  dead !  De  knave  von 
spades  vas  not  de  place  in  vat  it  vas  before.  De 
first  dime  it  vas  de  ace  von  hearts  next." 

She  picked  up  the  designated  card  and  tossed  it 
to  one  side  disdainfully. 

"  That  card  is  unimportant ;  it  does  n't  count 
anyway."  Here  was  another  game  at  which  two 
could  evidently  play. 

Vogel  became  wroth  and  lost  his  temper.  "  De 
Dutch  vas  a  descheitful  peeple.  I  vill  be  de  friend 
von  de  Dutch  race  no  more." 

Her  heavy  foot  stamped  on  the  floor.  "You 
talk  as  if  you  were  the  Kaiser  of  Germany.  The 
Dutch  race  can  get  along  without  your  friendship, 
I  guess.  You  pay  me  and  get  out  of  here  !  " 

"  I  vill  not  bay  ;  de  cards  vas  no  gut ;  you  hav 
scharmed  dem." 

"  I  will  have  you  arrested,  you  old  scamp,"  she 
shrieked. 

"  You  call  me  a  schgamp ;  me,  de  great  carver, 
de  Michael  Angelo  in  vood?  You  old,  fat,  ugly 
veed.  You  sit  your  dirty  wrapper  in  like  —  like 
a  schimney  covered  schmoke  mit." 

This  swift  change  of  simile,  this  degradation 
from  a  rose  to  a  weed  and  then  to  a  smoke- 
wreathed  chimney,  left  her  speechless.  She  jerked 
at  the  cords  of  the  cotton  window  shade  and  the 
sunlight  came  streaming  into  the  room.  The  par- 


96  POOR  PEOPLE 

rot  shrieked  in  Dutch.  The  cats  debouched  from 
the  other  room  and  ran  about  Vogel's  feet,  making 
him  the  centre  of  a  circle  the  circumference  of 
which  was  a  heavy  black  line. 

"  I  curse  you  in  the  name  of  the  seventh  daugh- 
ter of  the  seventh  son,  whose  curse  shall  last  for- 
ever and  ever."  She  raised  her  hands  dramati- 
cally. 

Vogel's  color  became  that  of  the  whitewashed 
wall ;  his  body  seemed  to  shrink  into  the  floor ; 
his  knees  quaked ;  his  hands  were  clasped  as  if 
in  prayer.  The  black  cats  purred  about  him  un- 
noticed ;  the  curse  of  the  seventh  daughter  passed 
unheard  ;  his  eyes  were  fastened  upon  his  shadow, 
which  stood  in  silhouette-like  relief  on  the  blank 
wall. 

"  If  you  don't  pay  me  what  is  due  me,"  threat- 
ened the  woman  in  the  most  impressive  voice  she 
could  command,  "  I  will  order  the  shadow  to  flit 
after  you  until  the  end.  It  will  follow  you  when 
you  are  awake,  and  will  stand  over  your  bed  when 
you  are  asleep.  I  am  fat !  I  am  a  chimney !  I 
cheat  at  cards  !  I  am  a  weed,  am  I  ?  " 

Vogel's  teeth  chattered  ;  he  maundered  some 
words  that  were  as  indistinct  as  the  babble  of  a 
babe.  He  felt  in  his  pocket  mechanically,  dropped 
his  dollar  and  a  half  on  the  floor,  and  ran  from  the 
room. 

In  the  hallway  he  cursed  and  howled  in  a  man- 
ner that  the  seventh  son  might  have  envied ;  but 
at  that  particular  moment  the  seventh  daughter 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER  97 

envied  nobody ;  she  lay  back  in  her  chair  smoth- 
ered with  laughter,  patting  her  cats  affectionately 
with  her  left  hand,  jingling  the  silver  with  her 
right,x  and  blinking  at  the  parrot,  which  was  trans- 
lating Vogel's  German  curses  into  Dutch. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  CONFESSION 

ADOLPH  was  reflecting  over  the  result  of  two 
experiments  that  he  had  just  made  in  analysis  and 
vivisection.  His  heart  and  mind  had  been  the 
material  for  both  of  his  pseudo-scientific  investi- 
gations. The  results  brought  him  no  certitude  in 
any  way  commensurate  with  the  expenditure  of 
work  and  the  pangs  of  thought.  He  was  as  well 
satisfied  now  with  the  conclusions  derived  concern- 
ing his  love  for  Ida  (no,  it  was  not  love  ;  it  was 
simply  affection)  as  before  the  painful  operations 
had  been  undertaken.  The  best  thing  to  do,  he 
resolved,  was  to  cease  his  visits  and  drop  her  ac- 
quaintance for  a  time  ;  in  the  interim  he  would  be 
able  to  decide  if  this  affection  were  merely  a  whim, 
or  whether  it  rested  on  a  basis  that  was  firm. 

A  tap  at  the  door  put  an  end  to  all  morbid  in- 
trospection. "  Ida,"  he  said  to  himself  ;  and  cov- 
ering his  face  with  a  mask,  he  opened  the  door. 

"Well?" 

"  You  don't  seem  a  bit  pleased  to  see  me." 

"  I  'm  delighted." 

"  No,  you  're  not ;  you  don't  look  it." 

"I'm  frightfully  busy." 

"  You  ought  never  to  be  too  busy  to  see  me  for 
a  few  minutes." 


THE  CONFESSION  99 

"  I  never  am.     Won't  you  come  in  ?  " 

"  No,  not  on  such  a  cold  invitation.  "When  I 
extend  an  invitation  to  any  one  I  do  it  as  if  I  meant 
it,  as  if  I  were  sincere,  and  not  just  trying  to  be 
polite.  I  do  it  like  this ;  listen  carefully,  and  then 
you  '11  know  next  time :  I  am  going  out  to  take 
my  work  to  the  shop.  Will  you  walk  with  me  ?  I 
wish  you  to  very  much.  I  am  just  dying  to  have 
you.  Won't  you  come  ?  " 

"  Thanks  for  the  lesson ;  I  learned  a  heap.  But 
I  can't  go.  I  have  too  much  to  do,"  he  grumbled. 

"  I  see  that  you  have  one  of  your  pleasant  moods 
again.  I  'm  off  —  good-by." 

She  bounded  along  the  short  hall  that  led  to  the 
stairs.  He  stood  undecided.  His  indecision  was 
of  short  duration.  "  Wait  a  minute,"  he  bawled 
after  her,  "  I  '11  come." 

Her  merry  laugh  pealed  upward.  "  I  've  a  mind 
not  to  wait,"  was  her  reply,  as  she  stood  waiting. 

"Knows  me  like  a  book,"  he  muttered,  grab- 
bing his  felt  hat  and  joining  her.  Together  they 
wended  their  way  into  the  street. 

"  Let  me  carry  your  bundle." 

"  Have  n't  you  more  than  your  share  to  carry  as 
it  is?" 

" They  haven't  laid  the  last  straw  on  yet." 

"  But  you  have  n't  a  camel's  back." 

"  No,  but  it  is  fast  becoming  one ;  if  I  stay 
stooped  so  much,  I  shall  have  a  hump  before  long." 

"  You  have  actually  been  working  hard,  then  ?  " 

"  Actually." 

"At  the  play?" 


100  POOR  PEOPLE 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  a  sort  of  godmother-like  interest  in  the 
play,  you  know;  I  named  it.  And  still  you 
have  n't  brought  it  down  to  show  it  to  me  yet." 

"  I  started  to  twice." 

"  Well,  why  did  n't  you  do  it  ?  Sometimes  I 
think  you  are  very  timid,  and  sometimes  I  think 
that  you  are  n't  timid  at  all.  Which  are  you?  " 

"  I  hardly  know.  I  have  thought  just  that  my- 
self." 

"  You  can  forget  anybody  when  you  are  at  work, 
I  think." 

"I  thought  of  you,  though."  He  paused  a 
second  as  if  to  gain  counsel,  and  then  fairly  forced 
himself  to  add,  "  More  often  than  I  desired." 

She  flushed  slightly.  "  I  ought  to  feel  flattered  ; 
that 's  such  an  admission  for  you  to  make.  I  won- 
der how  you  came  to  do  it." 

"  So  do  I.     Are  you  pleased  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  exactly  displeased." 

"  What  an  admission  for  you  to  make  !  " 

They  had  reached  her  destination.  She  hastened 
up  the  stairs  of  a  red  brick  house,  over  the  second 
floor  of  which  hung  the  sign :  "  I.  Liberman  &  Co., 
Manufacturers  of  Knee  Pants."  The  lights  were 
still  burning  in  what  was  intended  for  a  parlor, 
and  Adolph  could  descry  some  ten  or  twelve  girls 
bent  over  sewing-machines. 

Ida  came  back  in  a  few  minutes,  bearing  a  bundle 
of  the  same  size  as  the  one  she  had  carried  thither. 
"  I  never  go  in  there  now  but  I  think  of  *  The  Song 
of  the  Shirt,'  and  I  never  leave  there  without  an 


THE  CONFESSIONT 

aching  heart.  And  how  little  they  get  for  their 
work !  It  does  n't  deserve  the  name  of  pay ;  it 's 
pittance.  It  isn't  fair;  it  isn't  right;  it  isn't 
just!  Yet  I  don't  think  that  Liberman  is  to 
blame.  He  seems  to  be  a  good-hearted  man,  and 
I  am  sure  that  he  gives  us  as  much  as  he  can ;  but 
he  does  n't  get  anything  himself.  He  sells  his  stuff 
to  the  dealers,  and  they  give  him  precious  little, 
and  sell  at  a  small  profit  themselves,  and  so  it  goes 
the  whole  way.  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  the 
people  would  pay  more,  if  the  dealer  could  sell  at 
a  better  profit,  and  we  could  get  something  like 
honest  pay  for  killing  work." 

"  It  would  be  better,  but  competition  don't  allow 
that ;  then  there  are  always  so  many  workers  strug- 
gling for  the  same  position  that  you  might  be  paid 
no  higher  even  if  the  dealer  sold  for  more.  It  is 
the  meanest  man  anyway  that  dictates  the  price  of 
goods ;  he  grinds  his  help  to  death,  sells  cheaper 
by  using  meaner  methods,  and  if  his  competitors 
don't  follow  suit,  he  will  undersell  them  and  crush 
them  out  of  business." 

"  Yes,  that 's  the  way  that  father  has  explained 
it  to  me  —  supply  and  demand  and  competition. 
But  that  never  explained  it  all  to  me,  somehow.  I 
suppose  I  am  dull  about  those  things,  yet  it  seems 
to  me  there  must  be  something  above  all  that." 

"  So  there  is,  human  greed  and  selfishness." 

"  How  beautiful  it  would  be  if  love  for  humanity 
and  the  spirit  of  justice  would  supplant  these  two 
and  govern  the  world." 

His  small  eyes  flashed  in  hers  and  went  boring, 


1Q2  POOR  PEOPLE 

boring  through  her.  "  You  have  thought  of  these 
things  some,  have  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  my  stupid  fashion." 

"  I  think  too  that  the  love  for  humanity  and  the 
spirit  of  justice  must  supplant  the  present  inequal- 
ity ;  or  else  "  —  He  stopped  short. 

"  Or  else  what  ?  "  she  asked  earnestly. 

"  Or  else  an  open  battle  between  oppressors  and 
oppressed  must  come  to  pass." 

"  That  will  be  murder  and  bloodshed  trying  to 
establish  a  reign  of  love." 

"It  may  come  without  that.  I  hope  it  will. 
There  are  new  signs  every  day  that  it  will ;  there 
are  others  that  it  will  not.  The  wisest  know 
nothing  when  it  comes  to  dipping  into  the  future." 
He  hastened  to  turn  the  trend  of  the  conversation 
with  :  "  It  seems  a  pity  that  a  girl  of  your  intelli- 
gence can't  find  anything  better.  There  ought  to 
be  something  better  for  you  in  this  great  world." 

"  Thanks  for  the  compliment  you  pay  to  my  in- 
telligence ;  but  I  don't  seem  able  to  do  anything 
better." 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  ?  " 

"  I  did  dressmaking  up  to  a  short  time  ago,  but 
it  averaged  no  better ;  I  guess  I  have  n't  got  the 
business  sense  it  requires.  I  used  to  do  fancy 
work,  but  embroidering  flowers  at  seventy -five 
cents  the  dozen  is  no  more  profitable,  and  it 's  far 
more  trying." 

"  It 's  fancy  work  at  plain  prices,  is  it  ?  " 

"  It 's  exhausting  work  at  starvation  prices." 

"  All  work  seems  to  be  that  nowadays." 


THE  CONFESSION  103 

"  Was  it  ever  any  different?  "  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know  as  it  ever  has  been.  I  have 
always  thought  of  the  world  as  a  pyramid  instead 
of  a  globe." 

"  That 's  a  peculiar  thought ;  why  do  you  think 
it?" 

"  Well,  when  you  think  of  a  globe  or  a  ball,  you 
think  of  something  that  is  round  and  equal  and 
smooth.  The  world  is  anything  but  that.  It 's  a 
pyramid,  all  the  weight  rests  on  the  bottom  layer. 
The  higher  the  pyramid,  the  greater  the  weight  on 
the  bottom.  The  few  who  make  the  pinnacle  press 
heavily  on  those  below,  and  the  innumerable  mass 
of  human  beings  at  the  foundation  feel  all  the  accu- 
mulated pressure  of  the  layer  on  layer  which  scale 
upward  to  the  top." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  fairer  to  stand  the 
pyramid  on  end  —  then  the  few  would  have  to  up- 
hold the  many." 

"  It  would  n't  stand  that  way ;  it  would  topple 
over."  He  saw  that  he  was  gradually  wading  into 
deeper  water  than  she  could  follow  him  into,  and 
again  he  changed  the  conversation  with  a  charac- 
teristic flight  of  fancy:  "If  you  could  have  one 
wish,  what  would  you  wish  ?  " 

"What  a  strange  question,  and  how  abruptly 
you  put  it !  Are  you  the  prince  in  the  fairy-tale, 
and  am  I  the  maiden  all  forlorn  whom  the  gallant 
prince  comes  to  rescue?" 

"  No,  I  am  only  the  watchmaker  in  the  tene- 
ment ;  but  the  fairies  have  bequeathed  me  the 
power  of  giving  every  one  a  wish;  but  unfortu- 


104  POOR  PEOPLE 

nately  I  can't  fulfill  the  wishes  of  those  to  whom 
I  extend  the  privilege  of  wishing." 

"  Then  what 's  the  good  of  wishing  ?  " 

"  Try  it  and  see." 

"  I  wish  that  my  father  might  have  a  situation." 

"  Now  I  '11  tell  you  the  good  of  wishing.  I  learn 
so  much  about  those  who  wish.  Most  people  either 
think  slowly  and  then  wish  something  for  some- 
body else,  or  they  think  quickly  and  wish  something 
for  themselves.  You  thought  quickly  and  wished 
something  for  another." 

"  But  I  knew  it  could  n't  come  true  in  any  case. 
I  fear  we  're  getting  to  be  what  Jane  calls  an 
M.  A.  S." 

"What's  that?" 

"  A  mutual  admiration  society." 

"  They  do  very  little  harm." 

"Why,  because  they  are  of  such  short  dura- 
tion?" 

"  No,  I  have  known  some  of  the  best  of  them  to 
last  for  life.  But  a  lasting  society  of  that  kind 
presupposes  that  the  object  of  its  organization  be 
for  good  purposes,  that  the  members  have  certain 
qualities  in  common,  and  that  they  be  assessed 
equally." 

He  paused  to  reflect  for  material  with  which  to 
continue  his  figure. 

"  We  are  home  now,"  she  broke  in. 

He  looked  up  with  a  slight  start.  "  So  we  are, 
and  I  never  noticed  it.  It 's  early  yet.  Won't 
you  walk  on  a  bit  ?  You  threw  the  train  of  my 
thoughts  off  the  track ;  you  might  help  to  get  it 
back  again." 


THE  CONFESSION  105 

"  I  '11  come  right  down  as  soon  as  I  put  this 
bundle  away,  and  help  you  start  on  the  right 
track." 

She  returned  before  he  thought  she  could  have 
reached  the  top  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs.  They 
moved  down  one  of  the  narrow  streets  of  the 
squalid  district ;  in  so  far  as  they  were  concerned, 
the  road  might  have  led  through  the  virgin  woods 
of  the  spring's  flush. 

"  You  started  to  tell  me  something  about  your 
father  being  out  of  a  situation." 

"  There,  you  see  how  selfish  I  am.  I  forgot  all 
about  poor  father  and  his  troubles.  His  firm  dis- 
charged him  on  Saturday  night ;  and  they  did  it  in 
such  a  mean,  cowardly  way.  He  has  been  in  their 
employ  for  over  eight  years,  and  I  am  sure  that 
during  all  that  time  he  has  n't  missed  a  minute,  and 
that  he  could  n't  have  been  any  more  faithful  or 
honest,  or  tried  harder,  if  it  had  been  his  own  busi- 
ness. And  how  do  you  think  they  discharged 
him  ?  They  did  n't  have  one  word  to  say  in  per- 
son —  they  did  n't  have  the  courage.  They  wrote 
it  out  on  a  slip  of  paper,  which  they  inclosed  in  his 
pay  envelope." 

What  she  said  was  commonplace  and  barren 
enough  ;  but  the  way  she  said  it,  the  sadness  of  her 
voice,  the  solemnity,  the  seriousness  of  her  demure 
countenance,  went  straight  to  his  heart. 

He  touched  her  hand  softly,  and  their  fingers 
clasped.  She  divined  all  the  sympathy  that  his 
touch  meant  to  convey,  and  she  did  not  withdraw 
her  hand  from  his.  With  the  blood  beating 


106  POOR  PEOPLE 

through  her  slender  frame  quicker,  they  walked 
on. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  suddenly,  as  if  some  one 
had  passed  whom  she  knew,  and  as  if  she  were 
ashamed  to  be  seen  thus. 

"  Don't  be  discouraged,"  said  he  ;  "he  will  find 
something." 

"  You  are  telling  me  what  I  have  often  told  him. 
But  it  is  very  hard  at  his  time  in  life.  He  grows 
so  hopeless  and  depressed  at  times  that  it  makes 
my  heart  ache  to  see  him.  The  only  real  hope 
he  has  is  in  the  opera.  You  have  had  so  much 
experience  in  that  direction ;  tell  me,  what  do  you 
think  of  his  chances  of  success  ?  " 

"  Do  you  believe  in  the  opera  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart  and  soul.  Why  do  you  ask 
the  question  ?  " 

He  let  the  question  pass  unheeded ;  she  repeated 
it. 

"  Have  you  read  the  lives  of  the  great  musicians, 
Ida  ?  "  He  called  her  by  her  Christian  name  for 
the  first  time  ;  but  it  awakened  no  surprise  in  her 
—  it  seemed  so  natural  to  both  of  them. 

"  I  know  very  little  about  their  lives,  save  what 
father  has  told  me  here  and  there." 

"  Most  of  them  had  a  fearful  road  to  follow.  It 
was  like  running  a  gantlet,  the  one  line  made  of 
want,  misery,  and  despair  ;  the  other  of  misunder- 
standing, jealousy,  defeat,  and  disillusion,  all  swing- 
ing whips  of  nails.  At  the  end  of  the  line  was  a 
dream,  a  smiling  face,  a  something  that  lured  them 
on,  which  enabled  them  to  withstand  the  fierce 


THE  CONFESSION  107 

beating  of  the  whips.  Most  of  them  never  reached 
that  resting-place ;  they  fell,  unable  to  longer  en- 
dure the  pain  and  the  disappointment ;  some  fell 
from  sheer  weakness,  from  illness,  from  starvation. 
No,  old  age  cannot  run  that  gantlet,  it  is  only 
youth  that  can  gird  its  loins  and  battle  its  way 
forward." 

"  Poor  father !  "  she  sighed.  u  And  you  have  to 
run  that  gantlet  ?  " 

"  It  is  different  with  me.  I  have  become  inured 
to  it.  I  have  grown  up  with  that  idea.  Besides, 
there  is  no  other  road  that  I  can  travel,  even  if  I 
wish  to  turn  back." 

"  Sometimes,"  she  said  softly,  "  I  think  that 
what  we  have  to  endure  is  not  half  so  bad  as  we 
think  it.  I  know  when  I  look  back,  what  I  used 
to  think  the  hardest  time  in  my  life  seems  the  hap- 
piest now." 

"That's  because  you  don't  remember  it  dis- 
tinctly ;  time  blurs  the  sharpness.  It 's  the  same 
as  looking  at  a  picture  from  far  off  or  near  by. 
The  pain  is  bad  enough  while  it  lasts.  If  other 
people  cheated  us  or  lied  to  us  one  half  as  much 
as  we  cheat  ourselves  and  lie  to  ourselves,  what  a 
hue  and  cry  we  would  raise  !  " 

They  passed  along  in  silence.  He  regretted  that 
he  had  disillusioned  her ;  he  might  have  done 
better  to  have  let  her  nourish  her  heart  on  false 
hopes. 

"I  wish  that  I  could  help  your  father,"  he 
spoke  feelingly,  "  and  who  knows  —  perhaps  some 
day  I  can." 


108  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  I  hope  now  that  you  have  gone  so  far  you  will 
not  turn  back." 

"  You  would  run  that  gantlet,  then  ?  " 

"  At  your  age,  yes ;  and  even  if  I  starved  J 
would  do  it." 

They  were  moving  towards  home  now.  The  first 
star  glimmered  through  the  murky,  smoke-black- 
ened sky.  Armies  of  men  carrying  their  tools  and 
dinner-pails  were  thronging  the  sidewalks.  The 
night  had  come,  and  labor  was  seeking  rest. 

A  woman  holding  a  babe  in  her  arms  stood 
peering  through  the  window  of  a  saloon.  Both  of 
them  noticed  her  at  the  same  time.  Mayhap  the 
black  shawl  thrown  across  her  shoulders  —  a  black 
line  drawn  boldly  athwart  the  fainter  darkness  of 
the  early  night  —  caught  their  attention. 

A  man  tottered  out  of  the  dramshop  and  pushed 
the  woman  violently.  She  did  not  budge.  "  I  'm 
waitin'  fer  yer,  and  I  ain't  a-going  home  without 
yer.  It 's  a  shame  fer  you,  when  we  're  a-wantin' 
bread,  fer  ter  "  — 

"  Go  'long  now,  I  say,"  and  without  warning  he 
struck  her  full  in  the  face.  The  crowd  interfered. 
Ida  and  Adolph  pushed  on. 

"  What  beasts  it  makes  of  men  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
her  whole  body  vibrant  with  sympathy  for  the 
beaten  and  abused  woman.  "  I  hate  it !  I  could 
never  bring  myself  to  care  for  a  man  who 
drinks !  " 

She  flushed  pink ;  the  image  of  Adolph  carry- 
ing his  drunken  father  up  the  stairs  crossed  her 
mind  with  flashlight-like  rapidity  and  vividness ; 


THE  CONFESSION  109 

but  it  was  too  late ;  she  had  spoken.  A  spasm  of 
pain  shuddered  across  the  heavy  features  of  his 
face.  She  felt  rather  than  saw  it. 

"I  —  I  —  spoke  without  thinking  —  I  had  no 
intention  —  forgive  me,"  she  stammered. 

His  thought  was  jumping  over  gulches,  run- 
ning, climbing,  bounding  back  and  forth,  ques- 
tioning, answering,  holding  counsel  with  itself. 
Should  he  tell  her  ?  Should  he  keep  his  lips 
sealed  ? 

"  I  meant  to  tell  you  what  I  saw,  what  made  me 
admire  you,"  she  hastened  to  say.  "I  saw  you 
carry  your  father  up  the  stairs  one  night,  and  you 
were  so  kind  and  gentle."  It  was  the  only  oil  she 
had  to  pour  on  the  troubled  waters. 

He  struggled  with  his  secret ;  it  was  the  sharp 
and  fierce  conflict  of  a  minute's  duration  between 
duty  and  love.  He  spoke :  — 

«  I  drink,  Ida." 

"You  do!" 

"Yes." 

"  But  not  to  excess  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  you  will  give  it  up.  Of  course  you  will 
give  it  up." 

"  I  cannot." 

"  I  am  surprised  to  hear  you  say  that  —  a  man 
of  your  force  of  character  and  will  power." 

He  touched  her  hand  again.  They  were  near- 
ing  home.  The  darkness  was  complete. 

"  I  promised  my  mother  on  her  death-bed  that 
I  would  give  liquor  up.  I  have  broken  the 
promise." 


110  POOR  PEOPLE 

The  words  arose  to  his  lips ;  he  would  tell  her 
how  root  by  root  he  was  plucking  the  spreading 
quitch  from  his  system.  Nay,  he  would  not ;  it  was 
the  part  of  honesty  to  strip  all  veneering,  not  to 
varnish  it  with  coat  afresh. 

"  But  your  will  —  your  strength  —  you  will 
make  a  promise  to  me  and  keep  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  inherited  the  evil  —  it  is  in  my  blood. 
Look  at  that!  (he  pointed  to  a  piece  of  paper 
blown  aloft  by  the  wind)  I  am  like  that  when  the 
desire  comes." 

"  When  it  comes  you  will  let  me  know.  I  can 
help  you.  I  will  help  you.  You  will  come  ?  " 

"If  lean— yes." 

She  had  seen  drunkards,  and  she  loathed  them 
with  the  instinct  of  a  pure  girl  whose  nature 
craves  a  life  that  is  orderly  and  well  regulated, 
but  here  was  a  man  who  drank  and  she  loved  him. 
How  different  it  all  was  now. 


CHAPTER  XIH 

HUNGER 

ADOLPH  had  not  left  Ida  a  long  while  before 
I  came  trotting  up  with  a  plate  of  bread-pudding 
with  which  Ida  had  sent  me.  It  was  in  the  nature 
of  a  peace  offering,  I  suppose;  for  she  felt  that 
she  must  have  hurt  his  feelings,  and  she  wished  to 
make  such  amends  as  lay  in  her  power.  Possibly 
she  may  have  thought  that  the  way  to  a  man's 
heart  is  through  his  stomach ;  but  I  have  no  right 
to  hazard  a  guess  —  I  was  merely  the  dove  sent 
forth  from  the  ark  with  an  olive  branch.  I  tried 
to  be  as  dove-like  as  possible. 

His  eyes  scanned  the  bowl  with  a  hungry,  yearn- 
ing expression.  I  pretended  not  to  see  it,  turning 
away  in  that  awkward  way  of  mine ;  but  I  saw  it, 
and  he  knew  that  I  saw  it.  His  high  cheek-bones 
grew  a  trifle  higher,  and  his  square  jaw  a  trifle 
squarer.  I  was  apprehensive  for  the  fate  of  the 
olive  branch. 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  and  your 
daughter  for  the  consideration  you  have  shown  to 
me,"  said  he,  "  but  I  have  just  finished  my  supper, 
and  I  could  not  eat  another  bite  to  save  my  soul 
from  perdition,  and  you  know  how  anxious  I  am 
to  do  that." 


112  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  Ida  will  be  dreadfully  disappointed,"  answered 
I ;  "  she  prides  herself  on  her  puddings  (my  wife 
had  made  it),  and  she  seemed  to  take  particular 
pains  with  this  one." 

His  eyes  glared  eagerly  again ;  unfortunately  I 
noticed  it,  and  still  more  unfortunately  he  noticed 
that  I  noticed  it. 

"  I  am  sure  that  I  should  like  to  oblige  you  (I 
am  sure  that  he  would  have),  but  as  luck  will  have 
it,  my  appetite  and  I  are  at  outs  just  now."  Here 
again  I  am  sure  that  he  spoke  the  truth. 

"  You  might  try  a  little  of  it ;  Ida  will  scold  if 
I  come  back  with  it  untasted.  When  you  reach 
my  age,  young  man,  you  will  learn  that  the  worst 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  refuse  a  woman's  cooking." 

"She  ought  not  to  complain,"  replied  he,  "if 
her  bread-pudding  comes  back  on  the  water." 

I  did  not  insist  any  longer ;  I  feared  that  I 
might  offend  him.  I  am  never  quite  sure  of  my 
ground  when  talking  with  this  young  man.  On 
the  way  back  I  thought  that  I  might  have  at  least 
induced  him  to  have  tasted  a  spoonful ;  certainly 
I  went  away  with  no  leonine  pride  in  this  dove- 
like  transaction. 

Adolph  was  almost  forced  to  cry  aloud  with  the 
sharp  pain  that  came  from  the  gnawing  in  his 
stomach.  He  had  forgotten  his  hunger  when  with 
Ida.  It  was  seeking  its  revenge  for  the  neglect 
now.  He  had  not  eaten  since  last  night,  and  the 
prospects  of  a  meal  before  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing were  not  good,  and  even  that  breakfast  was 
not  a  thing  with  which  to  conjure  his  present  dis- 


HUNGER  113 

tress.  His  father  did  not  return.  Vogel  had  the 
habit  of  disappearing  for  a  day  or  two  at  a  time ; 
no  one  knew  where,  his  son  not  excepted. 

The  small  closet  in  the  kitchen  was  empty ; 
there  were  not  crumbs  enough  for  a  mouse  to  dine 
on.  Four  mended  watches  lay  on  the  bench,  but 
although  they  might  be  pleasing  to  the  eye,  they 
but  tantalized  the  stomach ;  there  was  little  hope 
of  his  patrons  paying  before  the  late  hours  of  the 
morrow. 

He  drank  copiously  from  the  kitchen  faucet ; 
coming  back  to  his  rooms,  he  lit  the  lamp  and 
started  to  work.  The  gnawing  became  sharper 
with  every  minute.  He  was  obliged  to  throw  his 
pen  aside  and  clasp  his  hands  to  restrain  the  cries 
that  mounted  to  his  lips. 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  striving  to  lull 
his  agony  by  motion.  The  torture  grew  unendur- 
able ;  putting  on  his  hat  and  coat,  he  made  for  out 
of  doors.  On  the  way  to  the  street  he  passed  Frey- 
tag's  door ;  it  was  "  roast  night "  at  the  butcher's 
home,  and  the  savory  smell  of  the  meat  was  mad- 
dening. He  would  be  welcome  there,  welcomed 
with  true  German  hospitality.  He  took  a  step  or 
two  towards  Freytag's  door,  then  he  turned  on  his 
heel.  Consistency  is  paste  at  times  ;  inconsistency 
the  genuine  jewel. 

Just  around  the  corner  on  the  avenue  is  a  res- 
taurant, dight  "  Sunshine,"  where  one  can  get 
what  the  window  proclaims  with  flaring  sign  "A 
square  meal  for  fifteen  cents,"  providing  one  has 
the  fifteen  cents.  No  arithmetical  table  has  com- 


114  POOR  PEOPLE 

puted  the  value  of  fifteen  cents  to  a  starving 
man. 

Probably  the  restaurant  had  been  dubbed  thus 
because  no  ray  of  sunlight  ever  penetrated  the 
semi-darkness  which  ever  enwrapped  the  place. 
It  belonged  to  a  widow  by  the  name  of  Cairns  ; 
although  she  kept  an  eating-house,  she  by  no  means 
lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land.  Her  struggle  for  ex- 
istence had  been  hard,  and  she  had  been  hardened 
by  the  struggle.  To  those  who  asked  for  credit 
she  invariably  gave  the  answer:  "My  landlord 
don't  take  that  for  rent." 

Herr  Vogel  had  secured  credit  once  by  eating 
first  and  asking  to  be  trusted  afterwards.  She 
was  so  dumfounded  by  his  impudence  that  she 
could  not  refuse  what  he  had  already  taken.  After 
that  incident  she  hung  up  a  sign  in  the  front  of  the 
shop,  "Pay  before  eating."  When  the  cabinet- 
maker caught  sight  of  the  placard,  he  made  an 
effort  to  secure  a  meal  on  trust  by  flattering  the 
woman  on  her  business  astuteness.  She  lost  her 
temper  completely  at  his  effrontery,  and  ordered 
him  out  of  the  place.  He  surprised  her  still  more 
by  drawing  the  money  from  his  pocket  and  paying 
cash.  He  increased  her  surprise  to  bewilderment 
on  that  same  evening ;  he  made  love  to  her  after 
eating,  and  actually  wheedled  her  into  returning 
the  fifteen  cents.  She  was  hatchet-faced,  lipless, 
freckled,  and  shapeless  as  a  gnarled  stick.  It  was 
the  first  time  in  her  life  that  any  human  being 
had  complimented  her  on  her  looks,  and  she  was 
so  delighted  that  she  was  willing  to  pay  the  cost. 


HUNGER  115 

When  she  returned  to  her  senses,  she  considered 
Vogel  the  greatest  rascal  that  the  Lord  had  ever 
blessed  with  gray  hair ;  but  for  Adolph  she  always 
retained  the  prof  oundest  respect.  He  paid  cash  ; 
he  ate  but  little,  and  he  made  good  his  father's 
indebtedness  of  thirty  cents.  Despite  his  shabbi- 
ness,  his  ugliness,  and  his  curtness,  everybody  paid 
Adolph  a  certain  regard;  there  was  a  dignity,  a 
restraint,  an  indefinable  air  of  genius  clinging  to 
this  man  which  compelled  admiration. 

Twice  Adolph  passed  the  restaurant  before  en- 
tering. Mrs.  Cairns  was  alone,  and  his  courage 
waxed.  He  stalked  over  to  a  corner  of  the  room 
and  took  a  seat.  The  widow  started  with  a  detail- 
ing of  her  petty  troubles  —  she  served  that  as  the 
first  course  to  all  her  sympathetic  patrons.  Two 
customers  entered,  but  considering  her  woes  of 
more  importance  than  her  trade,  she  did  not  cease 
her  dribble  to  wait  on  them.  Adolph  turned  to 
eye  the  men  who  had  seated  themselves  at  the 
table  opposite.  He  bowed  stiffly ;  they  bowed  still 
more  stiffly  in  return.  They  were  two  watch- 
makers with  whom  he  had  served  his  apprentice- 
ship in  the  factory. 

The  widow  made  a  sudden  pause  in  her  jere- 
miad against  the  world.  "  Mr.  Adolph,  you  are 
pale  as  a  sheet ;  you  look  faint.  You  have  n't 
eaten  a  thing  for  a  day  or  two,  I  '11  wager,  have 
you  ?  Come  now !  " 

The  watchmakers  were  glaring  full  at  him, 
undoubtedly  they  had  heard  the  widow's  exclama- 
tion. 


116  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  Certainly  I  have,"  he  rejoined ;  "  it 's  just  one 
of  my  terrible  headaches.  I  get  them  just  once  in 
so  often,  you  know." 

"A  cup  of  hot  tea  might  do  you  good." 

"  No,  thanks,  I  just  dropped  in  to  see  you  a  sec- 
ond. I  '11  have  to  hurry  along  now."  His  great 
head  inclined  an  imperceptible  distance  on  his 
long  neck  and  he  left. 

He  dragged  himself  homeward,  moving  slowly 
with  a  sense  of  giddiness  and  faintness,  feeling  as 
if  the  earth  were  revolving  at  a  tremendous  rate 
of  speed  and  his  body  were  standing  still.  He 
had  to  repel  the  impulse  to  drop  on  the  street  and 
shut  his  eyes.  When  he  reached  home,  his  hunger 
would  be  stilled  by  sleep ;  it  was  well  worth  the 
effort,  and  he  toddled  along  as  one  moves  through 
an  unfamiliar  house  in  the  dark. 

Against  the  post  of  an  electric  arc-light  that 
stood  at  the  street  corner,  he  leaned  for  support. 
A  heavy  hand  thwacked  him  on  the  back. 

"  Oh,  it 's  you,  Malachy,  is  it  ?  " 

"  How  are  you,  Adolph  ?  "  asked  the  fat  saloon- 
keeper. 

"  F-a-i-r,"  he  drawled. 

"  I  've  been  wanting  to  speak  to  you  for  a  long 
time." 

"  Does  my  father  owe  you  anything  ?  " 

"  Don't  get  uppish,  young  feller.  I  never 
troubled  you  about  your  father's  debts,  did  I  ?  " 

"  N-o." 

"  It  ain't  that  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about. 
You  never  give  a  feller  a  chance  to  speak  a  word 


HUNGER  117 

to  you ;  you  always  run  away  by  the  time  I  get 
my  trap  ready  to  talk." 

Adolph  braced  himself  a  little  firmer. 

"  If  you  don't  feel  well,  don't  let  me  keep  you 
here." 

"  I  feel  all  right,  go  ahead." 

"  To  cut  it  short,  and  I  never  was  much  on  the 
parley,  I  don't  want  you  to  blame  me  for  your 
father's  trouble.  I  never  asked  him  to  come  over, 
and  I  never,  so  help  me,  coaxed  him  to  drink." 

"  I  never  blamed  you,  did  I  ?  " 

"  No,  but  you  put  them  peepers  on  me  once  or 
twice  in  a  way  that  did  a  heap  of  talking." 

"  That 's  just  my  way." 

It  was  more  comfortable  leaning  against  the 
post  than  walking ;  he  clung  to  it  as  a  sick  man 
to  his  bed. 

"  To  be  dead  square  with  you,  Adolph,  I  like 
your  style.  You  stick  to  the  old  man  the  way  the 
last  drop  sticks  to  the  bottom  of  the  glass.  You 
never  found  no  fault  with  me,  and  most  people 
would  have  been  around  to  the  joint  a-tryiug  to 
raise  the  roof  off.  I  'm  a  bad  lot,  I  am ;  but 
there  's  a  spot  in  me  that  the  black  paint  won't 
stick  to.  Oh,  I  ain't  proud  of  it ;  it  ain't  good  for 
my  line  of  business.  I  'm  there  to  sell  all  I  can, 
but  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  'm  on  the  square  ; 
and  more  's  the  time  than  one  when  your  father 
wanted  more  than  I  'd  give  him.  If  ever  you  need 
anything,  you  can  come  over  to  my  joint  and  get 
it.  You  're  good  for  as  much  as  you  like." 

It  was  all  quite  unexpected ;  the  softness  of  this 


118  POOR  PEOPLE 

hard  man  touched  Adolph.  He  extended  his 
hand :  "  Thanks,  Malachy.  I  never  blamed  you. 
If  you  had  n't  been  there,  some  one  else  would 
have  been ;  so  that  is  all  the  same.  Anyway  my 
father  has  the  taste  for  the  cursed  stuff." 

"  That 's  the  way  I  look  at  it.  But  you  're  pale, 
young  feller.  When  did  you  eat  last  ?  " 

Malachy  recognized  that  look  and  its  concomi- 
tant symptoms  —  he  had  seen  it  before  in  his  busi- 
ness. 

"  About  five  minutes  ago." 

"  Don't  give  me  that  bluff  ;  you  're  going  home 
to  take  supper  with  me." 

"  I  've  just  had  my  supper,  I  tell  you." 

He  detached  himself  from  the  post  and  started 
on. 

"  Well,  then,  you  '11  eat  again  ;  it  won't  do  you 
no  harm." 

"  I  '11  have  to  hurry  home ;  I  've  got  work  to 
do." 

"  You  can  always  work,  and  you  can't  always 
eat,"  and  he  put  his  strong  arm  around  the  pro- 
testing weakling  and  dragged  him  along. 

Malachy  did  not  have  to  knock  at  the  door  of 
his  apartment  in  the  tenement ;  the  moment  his 
heavy  step  was  heard  on  the  landing  the  door  was 
thrown  open  as  if  an  electric  device  connected  the 
two,  and  four  children  screamed  in  a  chorus: 
"  Dad  's  home." 

With  two  boys  clinging  to  his  legs  and  a  boy 
and  a  girl  in  his  arms,  he  sprawled  into  the  parlor. 
A  woman  with  his  rotundity  of  figure  and  of  a 


HUNGER  119 

good-natured  though  blowzy  appearance  met  him 
with  a  broad  smile. 

"Kids,  get  away  a  bit,"  he  roared;  "mother, 
shake  hands  with  Mr.  Vogel  —  that 's  the  German 
for  bird,  and  he  's  a  bird  I  'm  a-telling  you." 

He  roared  at  his  joke  and  the  children  roared 
with  him,  not  seeing  the  point  and  not  caring  — 
anything  their  father  considered  fit  to  laugh  at 
was  good  enough  for  them.  His  wife  accepted  it 
on  the  same  recommendation  and  laughed  too. 
The  atmosphere  was  contagious  and  Adolph 
smiled,  which  was  Adolph's  way  of  laughing. 

"  Don't  let  him  trouble  you,"  said  the  woman, 
with  a  brogue  that  was  richer  and  finer  than  her 
husband's  ever  dared  to  be.  "  He  would  joke  with 
the  Pope,  he  would.  He  'd  make  a  joke  of  himself 
if  there  was  no  one  left,  he  would." 

"  That 's  my  wife,"  whispered  Malachy  loud 
enough  for  her  to  hear. 

"  And  a  sad  day  it  was  when  I  married  you, 
James  Malachy." 

"  She  roped  me  in ;  she  could  n't  get  anybody 
else,  could  she,  kids  ?  " 

"  No,"  screamed  eight  leather  lungs. 

"  I  have  the  kids  with  me,  you  will  observe,"  he 
said  to  the  guest. 

"  No  wonder ;  what  with  your  spoiling  them  and 
undoing  all  the  training  they  get  all  day,  it 's  hea- 
thens your  friend  will  think  they  are."  As  a  matter 
of  course  the  friend  said  that  he  had  never  seen 
better  children,  which  was  what  he  was  expected 
to  say. 


120  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  Stop  your  blarney,  mother,  and  get  something 
to  eat ;  it 's  too  old  that  I  am  for  your  flattering, 
and  I  'm  starving  for  hunger.  It  will  be  breakfast 
time  before  you  get  our  supper." 

She  moved  towards  the  kitchen,  apologizing  to 
Adolph  that  she  was  quite  unprepared  for  a  guest. 

"  The  same  story  always,"  shouted  Malachy.  "  I 
told  you  yesterday  that  I  was  going  to  bring  a  dis- 
tinguished guest  home.  We  can't  eat  excuses ; 
hurry  with  you." 

He  toppled  the  children  in  a  heap.  "  The  under 
one,  that 's  Jim.  Do  you  mind  the  muscle  of  him  ? 
Larry  is  the  one  he's  punching.  Not  so  hard 
there,  Jimmy,  do  you  hear  ?  Larry,  he 's  the 
scholar,  only  nine  and  in  the  second  grade  already. 
We  '11  make  a  priest  out  of  him :  he 's  got  the  head 
for  books.  Look  at  the  arm  of  that  Jimmy  ;  he  'd 
leave  his  dinner  to  scrap,  that  boy,  he  would. 
The  one  that  has  the  two  of  'em  by  the  hair,  that 's 
Burke.  Big  one  for  his  age,  eh  ?  He 's  only 
seven.  You  '11  see  him  eat  afterwards ;  you  'd 
think  that  each  meal  was  his  last,  and  that  he  only 
wanted  to  eat  once  in  his  life  and  be  done  with  it. 
Come  here,  Nora ;  punching  your  brother  in  the 
slats  ain't  no  game  for  a  girl,  let  the  boys  do  that. 
Larry,  if  you  don't  stop  pulling  the  end  of  your 
brother's  mouth,  I  '11  give  you  what  for,  do  you 
mind  that  now  ?  Pitch  in  there,  Burke  ;  what  are 
you  standing  around  for  ?  Get  in  with  your  left 
and  help  the  scholar." 

He  lifted  Nora  on  his  knee.  "I  don't  have 
anything  to  say  about  the  girl ;  she 's  her  mother's 


HUNGER  121 

doings.  She  '11  be  ten  before  the  month  's  gone. 
Taking  piano  lessons,  and  afore  I  know  it  the  old 
woman  will  be  having  her  take  French  next.  But 
Lord,"  he  chuckled,  "  I  don't  say  nothing  about 
the  girl.  You  '11  play  something  for  the  gentleman 
after  supper,  eh,  Nora  ?  I  'd  rather  hear  her  than 
go  to  the  theatre ;  she  knows  all  the  Irish  songs. 
She  's  worse  than  an  Italian  ;  she  would  n't  open 
her  trap  until  she  gets  a  penny  out  of  me." 

He  dropped  the  girl  from  his  knee  suddenly 
and  darted  for  the  tangled  heap  of  arms,  legs,  and 
bodies  that  was  rolling  on  the  floor. 

"  Do  you  want  something  in  earnest  ?  Don't 
you  fellows  know  when  to  quit  ?  You  're  worse 
than  a  pack  of  prize-fighters.  How  often  will  you 
let  me  tell  you  that  it 's  a  disgrace  to  worry  the 
life  out  of  me  at  night  after  I  Ve  been  working 
hard  all  day  ?  Larry,  will  you  let  go  of  the  end 
of  your  brother's  mouth  ?  " 

He  wrenched  the  heap  apart.  "  A  fine  boxer 
you  are,  Jim  Malachy ;  the  scholar  can  wallop  the 
life  out  of  you.  It  is  n't  your  salt  that  you  're 
worth." 

"  He  hit  me  when  I  was  down,"  gasped  he  of 
the  great  muscle. 

"  I  put  you  down,  too,"  exulted  the  scholar. 

"  Well,  get  out  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and 
have  it  out  square,"  interceded  the  father. 

They  took  positions  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  went  at  it  tooth  and  nail. 

Malachy  laughed  so  hilariously  that  Adolph 
feared  his  fat  sides  would  split  in  two.  "  Look 


122  POOR  PEOPLE 

out  for  your  right,  Larry,"  he  yelled;  "  it 's  only 
for  books  that  you  're  any  good.  Look  at  the  arm 
of  Jimmy,  and  him  only  six.  Burke,  you  keep 
away ;  must  you  always  be  a-fighting  ?  Not  so 
hard  ;  it 's  only  for  fun,  I  'm  a-telling  you." 

Mrs.  Malachy  entered  the  room  to  announce 
that  supper  was  waiting.  She  separated  the  pu- 
gilists, dealing  each  of  them  a  sound  box  on  the 
ears. 

"  It 's  a  fine  pack  you  're  raising,"  said  the  hus- 
band with  affected  ruefulness ;  "  I  can't  make 
them  leave  off  their  rascality  and  fighting  for  the 
life  of  me." 

"  You  're  the  worst  rogue  in  the  lot,"  scolded 
she ;  "  it 's  you  that  sets  them  on." 

The  athletes  advanced  towards  their  father, 
rubbing  their  ears.  "  It 's  no  consolation  you  '11 
be  getting  from  me ;  you  deserved  it,  and  worse." 

His  wife  upbraided  him  again,  and  he  evidently 
found  it  a  huge  source  of  amusement. 

"  Ah,  but  the  old  woman  can  scold,"  he  whis- 
pered to  Adolph ;  "  it 's  worth  coming  home  to 
hear.  It 's  better  than  paying  to  hear  a  funny 
play." 

The  mother  called  the  girl  to  one  side.  She 
came  running  back  with  a  pair  of  slippers,  flat  at 
the  heels,  and  a  torn  and  tattered  coat  that  did 
duty  for  a  smoking-jacket.  With  a  pull  at  his 
red  moustache  and  a  kiss  she  handed  the  coat  to 
her  father,  then  she  knelt  on  the  floor  to  take  off 
his  shoes.  "  A  family  is  the  thing ;  it 's  the 
thing,"  he  said  to  Adolph.  "  I  'in  the  biggest 


HUNGER  123 

king  in  the  pack  here.  It 's  better  than  a  saloon, 
I  'm  a-telling  you." 

The  table  was  laden  with  coarse  food  and  plenty ; 
there  was  such  a  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  as 
Adolph  never  heard  in  his  life  ;  victuals  appeared 
and  disappeared  with  a  now-you-see-it  and  now- 
you-don't-see-it  like  rapidity  that  was  truly  magi- 
cal. 

"Pitch  in,"  counseled  Malachy;  "it's  grab  or 
starve  here."  The  good-natured  banter  kept  pace 
with  the  eating.  Between  mouthfuls  the  father 
descanted  at  length  on  the  monster  appetites  of 
the  various  members  there  assembled.  Such  a 
laughing,  hungry,  gormandizing  crowd  of  grigs  as 
the  family  of  the  saloon-keeper  Adolph  had  never 
seen  before  and  has  never  seen  since. 

"  If  you  would  like  a  drop,  it 's  here,"  said  the 
host.  "  I  never  drink  myself  unless  I  'm  drunk," 
and  this  Hibernianism  was  seen  only  by  the  Ger- 
man. Finally  the  paradox  burst  upon  the  Irish- 
man and  his  wife ;  and  laughter  interrupted  the 
eating  for  a  long  time. 

When  the  supper  was  over  —  which  was  no 
sooner  than  the  end  of  an  hour  —  Nora  sang  an 
Irish  melody  in  her  thin,  piping  voice,  accompany- 
ing herself  on  the  piano,  and  playing  just  a  little 
worse  than  she  sang  —  the  piano  was  infinitely 
worse  than  either. 

But  both  the  vocal  and  the  instrumental  music 
were  wonderful  to  Malachy,  and  he  listened  with 
an  air  of  solemnity  and  admiration  that  plainly 
said,  "  Can  this  be  my  daughter  ? "  and  he  dealt 


124  POOB  PEOPLE 

the  scholar  a  cuff  in  earnest  for  daring  to  mimic 
the  singer  behind  her  back. 

"She  got  that  from  the  old  woman,"  he  ex- 
claimed to  Adolph  when  the  last  note  of  the  tor- 
tured melody  died  away  in  agony ;  "  there  ain't 
any  music  in  me.  "Wonderful,  ain't  it  ?  " 

Four  times  the  guest  made  a  vain  attempt  to 
leave ;  with  the  success  of  the  fifth  he  was  over- 
whelmed with  requests  to  repeat  his  visit.  When 
he  returned  to  his  denuded  and  blank  rooms  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  shut  the  gates  of  para- 
dise behind  him.  If  he  did  not  envy  the  happy 
fate  of  the  Irish  saloon-keeper,  he  at  least  wished 
that  fortune  might  bless  him  with  a  humble  home 
like  that  some  day. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  WEDDING 

JANE  has  been  betrothed  for  a  month ;  she  will 
be  married  next  Sunday.  She  believes  that  there 
is  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip;  and 
whenever  she  has  a  cup  in  her  hand,  you  may  be 
sure  that  she  does  not  relax  her  grasp  until  it 
reaches  her  lips.  Had  she  her  way,  the  marriage 
would  have  taken  place  two  weeks  ago.  Rounds 
has  succeeded  in  interesting  several  capitalists  in 
his  manufacture  of  new  styles  of  furniture,  and  the 
enterprise  promises  to  be  profitable  beyond  antici- 
pation. As  becomes  a  man  who  is  largest  share- 
holder and  chief  director  in  an  important  corpora- 
tion, he  has  already  moved  away  from  the  tenement 
to  (I  use  his  phrase)  more  luxurious  quarters. 
Such  a  man  (here  I  use  Jane's  phraseology)  has 
chances  and  is  considered  a  catch.  Jane  holds 
that  a  bird  in  the  hand  is  a  bird,  and  that  a  bird 
in  the  bush  is  an  optical  illusion. 

Despite  the  reign  of  topsy-turvydom  and  excite- 
ment of  the  pre -nuptial  days,  Jane,  who  has  not 
gone  down-town  for  the  last  week,  sleeps  tranquilly 
until  ten  o'clock.  She  is  accommodating  herself  to 
the  new  life  gradually. 

At  the  church  ceremony  there  will  be  present 


126  POOR  PEOPLE 

only  the  immediate  family,  tlie  Vogels,  —  Ida  in- 
sisted upon  Adolph,  and  the  attendance  of  the 
father  was  requested  from  the  mere  fitness  of 
things,  —  and  two  friends  of  Rounds,  one  of  whom 
is  the  foreman  of  the  new  factory.  After  the  ser- 
vice we  shall  have  a  wedding  supper  in  our  apart- 
ment, where  all  our  friends  in  the  tenement  have 
been  requested  to  present  themselves.  Rounds 
will  pay  for  all  the  expenses  of  the  feast,  and  he 
desires  it  to  be  elegant,  cost  to  be  regarded. 

Jane  secured  a  printed  invitation  from  the  sta- 
tionery department  of  the  store,  and  she  copied  the 
form  in  handwriting.  Ida  argued  that  the  action 
was  silly  to  a  degree,  since  most  of  the  guests  were 
unable  to  read  English.  Jane  contended  that  this 
very  objection  enhanced  the  value  of  the  invita- 
tions, inasmuch  as  good  form  ever  impresses  those 
most  who  know  least.  There  was  a  battle  royal 
when  the  time  for  posting  them  came.  Ida  was 
appalled  at  the  extravagance  of  mailing  letters  to 
people  who  dwelt  in  the  same  building.  Ida  had 
the  best  of  the  argument,  but  Jane  had  her  way, 
save  in  the  two  invitations  to  the  Vogels,  which  the 
economical  daughter  insisted  upon  delivering  in 
person.  She  had  not  seen  Adolph  in  two  whole 
days,  and  here  was  an  excuse  for  a  call. 

When  Ida  went  on  her  mission,  she  passed  from 
nervousness  to  perturbation,  for  carrying  an  invi- 
tation to  your  sister's  wedding  to  the  man  you 
think  more  of  than  any  other  man  on  earth  is  a 
delicate  transaction. 

"  I  've  got  something  for  you,"  she  announced 
timidly. 


THE  WEDDING  127 

Blushingly  Adolph  thrust  the  envelope  in  his 
pocket ;  he  thought  it  might  contain  one  of  a  dozen 
things,  none  of  which  happened  to  be  correct. 

"  Don't  put  it  in  your  pocket,  read  it  now,"  com. 
manded  she. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  go,"  he  said,  before  his  eyes  had 
run  over  the  first  lines.  She  marveled  at  the 
rapidity  with  which  he  read. 

"  Why  not,  I  should  like  to  know !  " 

Almost  involuntarily  he  took  a  swift  inventory 
of  his  clothes,  noting  the  numberless  stains,  the 
color  long  since  faded,  the  gloss,  the  thin  places 
that  threatened  to  break  out  in  open  revolt  at  any 
minute,  so  sick  were  they  of  the  threadbareness  of 
their  lot. 

"  Your  clothes  don't  make  any  difference !  "  she 
exclaimed  before  he  had  time  to  frame  an  untruth- 
ful excuse.  Ida  continued  as  if  she  were  talking 
to  a  brother,  and  a  very  dear  brother ;  indeed,  she 
felt  on  that  ground  of  loving,  innocent,  easy  famil- 
iarity. "  You  just  get  them  cleaned  and  pressed 
and  fixed,  and  they  will  look  all  right,  I  am  sure." 

"  It 's  the  only  suit  I  have,"  he  stammered,  striv- 
ing for  his  self-possession,  which  had  left  him  in 
the  lurch  for  once. 

"  Then  come  as  you  are." 

"  I  should  be  out  of  place." 

"  You  are  never  out  of  place." 

As  he  was  about  to  dispute  this  proposition  and 
prove  to  the  contrary,  luck  would  have  it  that 
Bernheim  the  tailor  should  mount  the  stairs  at 
that  moment  with  a  watch  out  of  gear.  He  offered 


128  POOR  PEOPLE 

to  leave  the  watch  for  repair  if  Adolph  would  take 
his  pay  in  tailoring.  Ida  whispered  something  to 
Adolph,  and  the  fair  exchange  was  concluded. 

Whereupon  Adolph  arrayed  himself  in  an  old 
suit  of  his  father,  a  coat  that  left  room  for  another 
such  as  he  to  climb  into  and  room  to  spare,  and 
trousers  that  would  with  no  amount  of  tugging 
reach  farther  than  his  ankles.  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory  was  not  arrayed  like  him.  He  wrapped  his 
garments  in  a  bundle,  and  dropping  it  in  the  hall- 
way before  his  door,  whistled  three  times,  which 
was  the  signal  for  Ida  to  carry  the  clothes  to 
Bernheim.  She  made  him  understand  that  this 
particular  suit  was  of  more  importance  than  the 
coronation  robes  of  a  king,  and  the  tailor  grinned 
sartorically,  and  tugged  at  the  untrimmed  ends  of 
his  frowzy  black  beard ;  and  when  the  raiment 
went  back,  Adolph  scarcely  knew  it  for  his  own. 
Nine  tailors  go  to  the  making  of  one  man ;  but  one 
tailor  can  make  a  whole  army  of  men. 

Vogel  the  elder  called  to  give  a  verbal  accept- 
ance of  the  invitation.  I  never  knew  any  one  to 
accept  anything  so  eagerly.  It  reminded  him,  so 
he  said,  of  the  time  when  he  was  married.  Of 
what  did  it  not  remind  him,  in  fact  ?  It  seemed 
to  restore  him  to  a  long-lost  memory.  It  recalled 
all  the  great  things  that  he  had  ever  done,  all  the 
great  things  he  intended  to  do.  That  he  was  the 
Michael  Angelo  in  wood ;  SmalPs  substantiation  of 
that  fact,  and  "  The  Song  of  the  Bell,"  were  among 
the  minor  reminiscences  awakened  by  the  invita- 
tion. 


THE  WEDDING  129 

On  Sunday  two  carriages  drove  up  to  the  tene- 
ment with  the  same  dignified  air  that  they  might 
whirl  to  the  porte-cochere  of  a  mansion.  Out  of 
every  window  popped  a  head  ;  nay,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  see  the  windows  for  the  heads.  The  tene- 
ment seemed  built  of  heads  —  masculine,  feminine, 
juvenile  heads. 

I  know  not  how  many  eyes,  reckoning  two  per 
capita,  gazed  down  upon  bride  and  groom,  upon  my 
wife  and  myself,  as  we  walked  towards  the  carriage. 
I  never  felt  of  quite  so  much  importance.  My  wife 
coaxed  me  into  wearing  a  silk  hat  and  an  embroid- 
ered silk  waistcoat,  both  of  which  were  in  style  at 
one  time,  which  was  once  upon  a  time. 

Vogel  had  never  put  his  foot  inside  of  a  carriage 
before,  and  he  strove  to  make  the  step  appear  of 
vast  significance.  He  turned  and  lifted  his  hat 
to  the  mass  of  faces,  at  which  the  mass  of  faces 
grinned  and  roared.  I  feared  that  he  intended  to 
make  a  speech  sparkling  with  Yogelisms ;  but  he 
relieved  my  apprehension  on  that  score.  He  at- 
tempted to  mount  the  step  with  a  grace  and  ease 
that  should  denote  that  he  was  used  to  his  own 
coach  and  two :  the  result  was  that  he  missed  his 
footing  and  fell.  The  living  windows  fairly  shiv- 
ered to  pieces  with  merriment. 

The  bride  and  groom  passed  down  the  nave  of 
the  church  followed  by  my  wife  and  myself ;  behind 
us  were  Adolph  and  Ida ;  Herr  Vogel  led  up  the 
rear.  Mein  Herr  did  not  seem  to  relish  the  posi- 
tion, for  I  heard  him  mumble  incoherently. 

Solemnly  we  grouped  ourselves  about  the  altar. 


130  POOR  PEOPLE 

The  sunlight  poured  brightly  through  the  stained 
glass  windows  behind  the  chancel,  giving  a  light 
that  was  not  at  all  dim,  but  religious  and  impres- 
sive. It  poured  a  golden  haze  on  Jane's  hair, 
which  stood  out  in  a  contrast  that  was  vivid  and 
beautiful  to  the  paleness  of  her  cheeks  and  the 
whiteness  of  her  dress.  She  held  a  few  white 
roses  tied  with  a  white  ribbon ;  she  was  angelic,  in 
fine,  crowned  with  an  aureole  of  shimmering  gold, 
a  halo  visible  to  all  eyes. 

Rounds  has  drawn  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
which  is  not  very  high,  but  what  he  lacks  in  size 
he  makes  up  in  dignity.  His  shoulders  are  well 
thrown  back,  and  his  hard  mouth  is  firmly  set. 
His  suit  becomes  him  naturally  and  as  if  he  had 
been  born  to  the  wearing  of  a  frock.  Strange  how 
the  mind  is  awake  to  the  impressions  of  familiar 
things  at  an  occasion  so  momentous. 

The  ceremony  has  begun ;  I  must  not  let  my 
mind  wander,  I  must  follow  every  word  the  min- 
ister speaks.  My  wife's  hand  presses  my  arm. 
Ah,  I  know  what  that  pressure  means.  Our 
daughter  is  being  taken  from  us.  In  a  few  min- 
utes she  will  be  ours  no  longer,  but  another's,  to 
love  and  cherish,  to  harm  or  maltreat,  for  better  or 
worse,  as  fate  decides.  Death  separates  and  mar- 
riage divides. 

"  With  this  ring  I  do  thee  "  —  Rounds  holds 
the  binding  circlet  in  his  hand. 

There  comes  an  unexpected  shriek ;  then  the 
church  becomes  still  again,  silent  as  when  the 
organ  ceases  to  play  in  the  midst  of  a  pealing 
fugue. 


THE  WEDDING  131 

"  Sehen  sie  —  look  —  mein  schatten  —  my 
shadow  !  "  Vogel  points  to  a  black  outline  of  his 
figure  clinging  to  the  wall  of  the  right  transept. 

The  book  wavers  in  the  minister's  unsteady 
hand ;  Jane  has  turned  to  a  pallor  that  is  death- 
like ;  I  fear  my  wife  will  faint ;  Rounds  —  I  am 
not  sure,  it  sounded  to  me  like  a  curse ;  Ida 
clutches  Adolph's  arm  appealingly ;  Adolph  holds 
his  father  by  the  wrist. 

The  old  man  stands  speechless  for  a  minute,  his 
mouth  open,  with  pointing  finger,  gasping,  the 
personification  of  fright  carved  in  stone. 

He  gives  another  shriek,  louder  and  more  pier- 
cing than  the  first,  and  bursting  from  his  son's  puny 
grasp,  runs  down  the  nave,  his  thin  chest  almost 
bent  to  the  ground,  his  short  legs  taking  long 
steps,  and  so  out  of  the  church. 

The  minister  regains  his  composure  ;  the  florid 
spots  on  the  groom's  cheeks  fairly  glow,  but  he 
appears  as  calm  as  ever.  The  marriage  is  has- 
tened, the  minister  ends  with  a  few  admonishing 
words  on  the  folly  of  superstition  and  the  wisdom 
of  sense.  We  are  moving  up  the  aisle  again. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  FEAST 

WHEN  we  returned  from  the  church  we  found 
everything  prepared  and  in  readiness ;  mother  had 
employed  extra  help  for  the  occasion.  A  half- 
dozen  brilliant  red  roses  shone  on  the  white  cloth, 
striking  as  the  snow-line  on  the  dead  brown  of  the 
uncovered  fields  ;  a  garland  of  smilax  ran  around 
the  outer  edge  of  the  table  ;  in  the  centre  stood  a 
tower-shaped  macaroon  cake,  with  high  turrets 
made  of  frosting,  willing  to  tumble  before  the  on- 
slaught of  a  victorious  host. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  sit  Jane  and  Rounds, 
the  latter  saying  plainly  enough:  "Take  a  good 
look  at  me,  for  it  is  the  last  time  that  you  will  ever 
see  me  in  a  place  like  this."  Ida  is  seated  next  to 
Adolph;  both  are  smiling  and  happy,  wreathed 
with  content  and  love,  as  the  table  is  festooned 
with  smilax.  It  is  the  common  verdict  that  mother 
and  I  have  the  appearance  of  having  returned  from 
our  own  wedding  instead  of  our  daughter's,  and 
that  we  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  a  young  couple. 
I  am  tempted  to  take  this  with  a  grain  of  salt ; 
but  I  take  it.  There  is  a  placid  expression  on 
mother's  face,  as  if  she  had  taken  it  without  the 
salt. 


THE  FEAST  133 

Ann  Nielson  shines  clean  and  clear  as  the  new 
moon.  I  am  willing  to  wager  that  she  has  spent 
the  whole  week  in  scrubbing,  brushing,  and  mend- 
ing to  make  herself  presentable.  Next  to  her  is 
the  Polish  shoemaker,  his  blond  locks  pomaded 
to  the  barber's  taste  ;  he  is  decked  in  a  brand-new 
white  shirt,  a  white  tie  ditto,  and  his  Sunday 
clothes  newly  pressed  and  cleaned  (Bernheim  must 
have  been  busy  this  week);  so  altogether  he  has 
more  of  the  doctor's  guild-mark  and  less  of  the 
shoemaker's  than  he  has  ever  had  since  our  ac- 
quaintanceship began.  I  am  sure  that  this  would 
please  him  did  he  know  it,  and  I  am  sure  that  he 
knows  it. 

Madame  Van  Meer  is  upholding  the  affirmative 
end  of  the  debate :  "  Resolved,  That  Medicine  is  of 
Less  Value  to  Humanity  than  Magic,"  with  Jan 
Zwiefka.  Her  dress  is  a  study  in  scarlet;  the 
tropical  flowers  that  flaunt  in  gaudy  self-conscious- 
ness down  the  front  of  it  are  a  puzzle  in  botany. 
She  is  ever  glancing  down  at  the  skirt  to  make 
sure  that  the  black  cats  are  not  asserting  their 
week-day  privilege  with  her  Sunday  apparel. 

Malachy  and  his  wife  are  both  on  their  com- 
pany behavior,  determined  to  be  second  to  none  in 
the  point  of  good  manners.  He  is  dressed  in  a 
tight-fitting  frock  coat,  especially  tight  across  his 
broad  chest ;  his  white  collar  is  in  dangerous  prox- 
imity to  the  tips  of  his  ears ;  and  his  black  tie,  in 
the  middle  of  which  shines  and  sparkles  a  gem  as 
large  as  the  knuckle  of  my  thumb,  is  a  trifle  the 
blacker  by  reason  of  the  contrast  in  color  made 


134  POOR  PEOPLE 

by  the  red  carnation  in  his  buttonhole  (he  told  me 
in  confidence  that  he  put  the  flower  there  at  the 
last  minute,  fearing  that  his  "  rig-out "  was  alto- 
gether too  priestly).  His  wife  is  holding  herself 
as  straight  as  her  avoirdupois  will  allow;  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  a  smile  on  her  face  that  might  be 
termed  seraphic  if  it  were  not  studied. 

Freytag  and  his  "  frau  "  can  glare  down  on  the 
great  roast,  which  they  presented  to  us,  dressed 
and  cooked  for  the  occasion,  without  stretching 
their  short,  thick  necks.  The  butcher  receives  all 
compliments  with  a  deprecatory  air :  "  It  is  no- 
thing; if  the  wedding  had  not  come  at  just  the 
wrong  time,  he  would  have  sent  a  roast  that  was  a 
roast ;  this  is  what  he  called  a  chop." 

The  Bernheims  are  the  butcher's  neighbors; 
they  look  odd  —  the  quintessence  of  oddness  it- 
self. He  plucks  at  his  frowzy  black  beard,  and 
grins  and  grins,  reaching  the  ends  of  his  ears  with 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  a  little  nearer  with  each 
gymnastic  smile.  His  wife  plucks  him  by  the 
sleeve  and  frowns  reprovingly. 

Last  and  least  are  the  friends  of  my  son-in-law. 
They  seem  painfully  aware  of  the  fact  that  they 
have  rented  their  dress  suits  for  the  supper,  and 
as  if  they  dreaded  lest  the  others  discover  it.  Bern- 
heim's  all-knowing  look  might  speak  with  author- 
ity on  the  subject.  I  have  been  guessing  the 
nationality  of  the  foreman  and  his  wife  ;  I  waver 
between  Scotch  and  Irish.  As  we  shall  never 
meet  again,  I  feel  justified  in  dismissing  them  with 
a  line. 


THE  FEAST  135 

We  regret  the  absence  of  Herr  Vogel.  He 
would  let  tlie  rest  of  us  know  that  we  had  one  dis- 
tinguished guest  in  our  midst.  However,  he  may 
pop  in  at  any  minute,  and  make  up  for  lost  time 
by  tooting  his  horn  with  a  gusto  that  surpasses 
precedent. 

Surely  is  this  a  feast  of  all  peoples,  and  the  good  ^ 
Lord  must  have  beamed  with  satisfaction  to  have 
seen  the  children  of  His  various  nations  gathered 
about  the  tenement  table  in  amity  and  friendship. 

The  Polish  doctor  ogles  Ann  lovingly  behind 
the  broad  back  of  the  fortune-teller,  much  to  her 
disgust  and  to  Ann's,  who  stands  tiptoe  on  the 
summit  of  dignity. 

Without  warning  Jan  jumped  to  his  feet  and 
started  to  sing  a  Polish  war-song,  which  no  one 
understood,  but  which  every  one  enjoyed  so  much 
that  he  was  encored  again  and  again.  He  responded 
graciously,  singing  the  anthem  louder  each  time,  as 
if  its  success  depended  entirely  upon  noise.  The 
ball  is  set  a-rolling  now ;  another  guest  proposes 
another  diversion,  I  forget  who  and  what,  for  just 
then  there  came  a  loud  knock  at  the  door,  and 
Malachy's  bar-tender  stalked  in  with  a  large  bowl 
and  an  armful  of  small  paper  packages.  Straight- 
way Malachy  stated  that  he  would  provide  us  with 
something  as  necessary  for  enjoyment  at  a  wedding 
as  a  corpse  for  a  funeral  —  this  may  not  have  been 
a  very  elegant  way  of  putting  it,  but  Malachy  has 
his  original  expressions,  just  as  he  has  his  original 
recipe  for  compounding  what  he  is  fond  of  term- 
ing "  Malachy's  Own  and  Celebrated  Punch," 
which  he  lost  no  time  in  making. 


138  POOR  PEOPLE 

Like  one  who  lias  firm  faith  in  his  own  potions, 
Malachy,  before  asking  anybody  else,  tasted  the 
concoction  first.  After  the  pregustation  he  drank  a 
whole  glassful  with  a  smack  of  his  lips.  Whilst 
filling  our  glasses  he  regaled  us  with  a  hundred 
and  one  Irish  stories.  You  have  undoubtedly 
heard  most  of  them,  for  they  are  as  old  as  the 
lakes  of  Ireland;  but  they  were  new  to  most  of 
us,  and  those  to  whom  they  were  not  new  liked 
hearing  them  again.  This  encouraged  him  to 
venture  on  a  song,  and  we  all  joined  in  the  chorus 
with  such  a  vim  that  the  plates  rattled  on  the 
table. 

The  punch  circulated  freely.  I  notice  that 
Adolph  has  left  his  untouched,  and  that  Ida,  as  if 
to  aid  the  good  resolution,  has  followed  the  ex- 
ample. 

Rounds's  friend,  the  foreman,  proposes  and  gives 
a  toast  to  the  best  of  bosses.  "  His  face  is  red  as 
a  beet,"  to  quote  Malachy 's  post-prandial  com- 
ment; and  he  shouts  the  innumerable  virtues  of 
my  daughter's  husband  at  the  top  of  his  brazen 
voice.  He  is  a  tall,  thin  man,  all  legs  and  arms, 
and  he  throws  his  arms  about  as  if  to  ward  off  a 
cyclone.  Approving  comments  in  four  languages 
interrupt  him  constantly ;  but  they  evidently  do 
not  disturb  him  —  they  give  him  time  wherein  to 
rest  his  over-tired  arms. 

The  punch  circles  around  the  table  again.  Even 
Rounds  has  grown  loquacious  and  agreeable.  The 
Polish  doctor  has  shifted  his  affection  from  Ann 
to  the  rnadame.  She  is  reading  his  palm,  holding 


THE  FEAST  137 

it  a  little  tighter,  I  think,  than  is  necessary  for  the 
operation ;  but  Jan  does  n't  mind  the  squeezing ; 
for  he  is  ogling  her  with  his  blue  eyes  leaning  far 
out  of  their  sockets. 

Malachy  springs  to  his  feet;  he  is  the  self- 
elected  and  irrepressible  toast-master.  He  has 
called  upon  Adolph  for  a  few  remarks.  Adolph 
speaks  with  a  consummate  ease,  as  if  he  were  talk- 
ing to  a  single  friend  instead  of  a  host  of  people. 
Rounds  winces  slightly  as  Adolph  faces  him ;  the 
corners  of  his  hard,  firm  mouth  draw  tighter,  as  if 
he  is  expecting  the  necessity  of  self-defense. 

"  My  friends,"  said  Adolph,  "  I  am  sure  that  Mr. 
Rounds  could  have  selected  no  more  fitting  partner 
for  the  business  of  his  life.  He  has  hit  the  nail 
square  on  the  head  this  time ;  the  marriage  augers 
well.  He  has  found  a  wife  who  will  stick  to  him 
like  glue.  With  such  a  woman  for  a  companion, 
no  man  ought  to  find  life  dull  or  be  bored.  Her 
husband  is,  I  am  sure,  a  plane  man,  level  and 
square,  who  will  hammer  away  until  he  makes  a 
success  ;  and  while  he  may  know  much  about  vises, 
he  is  addicted  to  no  vice  whatsoever.  Moreover, 
he  is  a  patient  man,  well  drilled,  full  of  wise  saws, 
and  bits  of  learning.  He  will  never  go  lumbering 
along  through  life.  He  will  never  prove  an  ex- 
ception to  his  own  rule  ;  and  he  is  too  high-minded 
to  use  any  man  for  a  tool." 

I  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  whether  or  not 
all  our  guests  unraveled  this  melange  of  puns ;  I 
judge  by  the  serious  countenances  of  some  of  the 
listeners  that  the  speech  was  taken  in  sober  ear- 


138  POOR  PEOPLE 

nest.  Bounds  smiled  faintly  —  he  was  obliged  to 
by  the  nature  of  the  case. 

More  punch.  Malachy's  great  bowl  must  be 
connected  with  the  sea.  Jan  is  declaring  his  pas- 
sion for  Ann  openly,  and  the  madame  is  no  less 
open  in  her  disapproval.  Ann  has  quite  forgotten 
her  superior  military  origin,  for  she  lets  Jan  ap- 
proach her  as  familiarly  as  he  pleases,  and  she 
laughs  and  blushes  with  each  fresh  outpouring  of 
the  shoemaker's  flood  of  amorous  diction.  Wed- 
dings make  weddings ;  accident  is  the  surest  matri- 
monial agent  in  the  world. 

Bernheim  takes  the  floor.  His  wife  whispers  to 
him  in  a  language  that  I  can't  understand ;  but  I 
am  quite  sure  that  she  is  saying  something  to  the 
effect  of,  "  Don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself." 

He  relates  this  fable,  which  he  told  us  he  had 
gleaned  from  an  old  Jewish  book :  — 

"  A  certain  man  had  three  friends  :  the  first  of 
these  was  his  bosom  friend ;  the  second,  a  boon 
companion ;  the  third,  one  whom  he  prized  the 
least.  Once,  quite  unexpectedly,  the  king  sent  a 
messenger  to  command  this  fellow  to  appear  before 
him  in  his  palace  immediately.  The  request  was 
as  unusual  as  it  was  without  warning,  and  he  was 
afraid  to  go  alone.  He  asked  his  bosom  friend  to 
accompany  him,  but  the  request  was  refused.  He 
besought  his  boon  companion,  who  offered  to  go 
with  him  as  far  as  the  palace  gate,  but  not  one 
step  farther.  Thereupon  he  went  to  his  third 
friend,  from  whom  he  expected  least,  since  he  had 
always  regarded  him  with  the  least  esteem.  To  his 


THE  FEAST  139 

surprise  this  last  one  went  with  him  not  only  to  the 
king,  but  even  pleaded  with  the  royal  personage 
for  his  friend's  life.  Now  I  will  name  these  three 
to  you  in  the  order  of  the  love  which  the  man  bore 
to  them.  The  first  was  money;  the  second  was 
wife  and  child ;  the  third  was  honor  and  righteous- 
ness. So  when  God,  the  king  of  kings,  sends  the 
messenger  death  to  summon  the  soul  of  a  man  be- 
fore His  throne  for  judgment,  money,  of  which  he 
thought  most,  will  not  accompany  him  at  all,  for 
no  matter  how  much  he  has  he  can  take  none  of  it 
with  him.  His  wife  and  children  may  go  to  the 
grave  with  him,  weeping  and  wailing ;  but  farther 
they  cannot  go ;  but  the  third  friend,  honor  and 
righteousness,  goes  with  him  even  unto  the  throne 
of  God  to  plead  his  cause." 

When  Bernheim  has  finished  his  moral  tale, 
Vogel,  out  of  breath  and  much  the  worse  for 
liquor,  seats  himself  at  the  table.  He  is  prolific 
with  apologies,  and  does  his  best  to  make  it  clear 
that  he  was  detained  by  important  and  unforeseen 
business.  He  sidles  up  to  the  fortune-teller  and 
says  to  her  with  a  triumphant  smile :  "  I  told  you, 
I  be  not  dead !  " 

The  cloth  is  cleared,  the  long  table  is  taken 
apart  and  relegated  to  the  hall.  The  tenement 
children  throng  the  stairs  and  the  passageways, 
mother  and  Ida  distribute  among  them  all  the 
viands  that  have  been  left  over  from  the  feast  — 
which  is  astonishingly  little,  considering  the  sur- 
plus with  which  we  started  —  and  the  little  ones 
go  on  their  way  rejoicing. 


140  POOR  PEOPLE 

I  finger  the  chords  of  the  piano,  starting  a 
waltz,  and  the  dancing  begins  in  earnest.  Ann 
gallops  about  with  the  Pole;  the  madame  joins 
hands  with  Vogel ;  Malachy  insists  that  his  wife 
take  a  whirl  with  him ;  Bernheim  is  tripping  it 
with  his  better  half,  and  Freytag  and  his  "  frau  " 
are  bound  not  to  be  outdone.  There  is  precious 
little  room  for  so  many  dancers  to  twirl,  but  a 
strong  will  makes  a  wonderful  way. 

Jane  usurps  my  place  at  the  piano,  declaring  that 
for  this  once  mother  and  I  shall  dance  to  her 
music  ;  whereat  the  guests  range  themselves  about 
us,  and  clap  and  cajole  and  tease  until  refusal  is 
out  of  the  question.  The  company  join  hands, 
and  we  are  forced  to  dance  within  this  animated 
circle. 

We  did  it,  we  did  it ;  we  danced  at  our  daugh- 
ter's wedding  !  We  moved  slowly  and  awkwardly 
at  first,  I  fear,  for  mother  and  I  are  not  as  young 
as  we  used  to  be ;  but  towards  the  end  of  the  dance 
the  grace  of  youth  was  ashamed  to  have  deserted 
us  in  our  old  age,  and  it  returned  once  more. 
Despite  her  excuses  and  apologies,  I  am  positive 
that  mother  was  proud  of  her  agility. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ALL  IN   A  WEEK 

JANE  and  her  husband  left  the  city  for  a  week's 
trip  —  which  is,  so  to  speak,  to  take  but  a  quarter 
of  the  honeymoon.  Rounds  is  quite  willing  to 
journey  till  the  moon  grow  full;  but  it  seems 
that  his  business  interposes  with  strenuous  objec- 
tion. I  can  do  nothing  from  lack  of  occupation  ; 
he  is  too  occupied  to  do  anything ;  still  I  would 
prefer  condition  number  one.  Mother  has  been 
endeavoring  to  cheer  me  with  the  prospect  that 
when  my  son-in-law  returns  he  will  find  a  position 
for  me  in  his  office.  But  that  is  a  reversal  of  the 
usual  process,  and  I  build  little  hope  thereon. 

I  have  betaken  myself  to  the  factory  every  morn- 
ing as  regularly  as  if  I  were  on  the  pay  roll.  It 
deludes  me  with  the  idea  that  I  have  something  to 
do  ;  the  delusion  might  be  good  as  reality,  if  I  were 
only  paid.  I  meet  people  on  the  way  thither,  peo- 
ple whom  I  was  wont  to  shun,  for  I  dread  the  ques- 
tions which  they  are  ever  asking  —  "  "What  are 
you  doing  now  ?  The  same  position  yet  ?  How 
are  you  getting  along?"  "With  the  best  grace 
and  the  boldest  countenance  in  the  world  I  can 
answer  them  now,  "  I  am  just  taking  a  stroll  over 
to  my  son-in-law's  factory.  You  know  it,  of  course, 


142  POOR  PEOPLE 

The  United  States  Fine  Furniture  Factory,  Incor- 
porated." Magical  words  these  to  those  who  are 
ignorant  as  to  their  true  significance.  "  Ah,  so 
that  is  your  son-in-law,  is  it?"  All  obnoxious 
queries  cease.  They  see  me  hasten  to  the  hive, 
and  they  draw  the  conclusion  that  I  must  come 
forth  laden  with  honey. 

The  foreman  treats  me  with  a  respect  to  which  I 
am  not  entitled.  He  knows  not  how  Rounds  regards 
me,  and  he  is  bound  to  stay  on  the  safe  side.  So 
I  wander  at  will  in  that  roaring  region  of  belts, 
saws,  and  planing  and  carving  machines.  And 
what  an  immense  office,  and  what  an  army  of 
clerks ;  I  could  join  their  ranks  and  not  be  noticed. 
If  Rounds  has  but  the  will,  how  easily  can  he  en- 
list me.  Moreover,  the  business  has  grown  with  a 
rapidity  so  marvelous  that  it  must  exceed  Rounds's 
fondest  dream,  which  is  saying  much,  for  Rounds's 
dreams  of  fortune  are  fond  to  doting. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rounds  came  home  to-day,  and 
they  moved  directly  to  their  new  home.  There  has 
been  so  much  else  to  relate  that  the  new  home 
quite  escaped  my  treacherous  memory.  The  house 
stands  just  on  the  border  line  of  the  fashionable 
district ;  Jane  boasts  that  she  can  look  from  the 
front  window  into  the  back  windows  of  one  of  the 
leaders  of  fashionable  society,  which  she  considers 
an  advantage  by  no  means  to  be  despised.  Let 
me  go  into  no  extended  description  of  furniture, 
fittings,  and  arrangement ;  suffice  it  to  say  that 
Jane's  new  home  is  far  removed  from  anything 
suggestive  of  a  tenement.  Mother  and  Ida  spent 


ALL  IN  A  WEEK  143 

the  last  week  in  preparing  and  cleaning,  so  that 
there  was  nothing  left  for  Jane  to  do  but  to  take 
possession.  Mother  and  Ida  will  return  to  the 
tenement  and  be  as  contented,  in  so  far  as  either 
of  them  will  ever  inform  me,  as  if  they  had  never 
put  foot  inside  of  a  palace.  How  strange,  one 
sister  lives  in  a  palace,  the  other  in  a  hovel.  I  am 
led  to  think  sometimes  that  blood  is  thinner  than 
water.  I  hope  that  blood  will  convince  me  to  the 
contrary  before  my  life  be  ended. 

I  shall  ask  Eounds  for  a  position  the  first  thing 
to-morrow.  I  cannot  bear  to  break  another  bit  of 
the  shell  of  mother's  nest-egg.  He  might  ask  me ; 
he  knows  how  badly  I  stand  in  need  of  it.  Yet 
not  every  beggar  has  the  right  to  stand  with  hat  in 
hand  and  lips  pursed ;  that  is  really  begging  the 
question.  I  must  ask. 

He  saw  me  up  in  the  second  floor,  watching  the 
man  at  the  circular  saw. 

"  You  here  ?  "  he  said  rather  roughly. 

I  was  nonplused  for  a  minute,  then  I  answered  : 
"  Yes,  I  am  here  ;  in  person." 

The  man  at  the  saw  smirked  surreptitiously,  the 
kind  of  smirk  one  feels  rather  than  sees.  Rounds 
saw  it.  The  spots  flared.  It  would  seem  that  I 
have  become  what  is  called  a  standing  joke  in  the 
factory.  The  workmen,  always  so  apt  at  nick- 
names, have  dubbed  me  "Mr.  Poor  Relation." 
The  appellation  has  annoyed  me  far  less  than  it 
has  Rounds.  I  can't  help  it ;  and  he  is  certain 
that  he  can. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  might  get  hurt  up  here," 


144  POOR  PEOPLE 

he  said,  calling  me  to  one  side ;  "  these  belts  run- 
ning in  every  direction  and  all  this  machinery 
make  it  dangerous.  The  hands  are  careless,  and 
they  might  run  against  you  with  a  heavy  piece  of 
timber  and  push  you  against  one  of  the  saws." 

"  Thank  you  for  your  solicitude,"  replied  I,  "  you 
are  very  kind  ; "  and  I  left. 

The  sign  over  the  door  of  the  factory,  "  No  Ad- 
mission except  on  Business,"  applies  to  me  as  well 
as  to  the  veriest  stranger.  The  whole  world  has 
become  a  shut  door,  with  the  same  sign  painted  on 
the  lintel.  I  have  no  business ;  I  cannot  enter. 

"  You  are  home  earlier  than  usual,"  said  mother, 
regarding  me  with  an  air  of  expectancy.  She  saw 
my  face,  and  she  bent  her  eyes  on  the  cooking. 
Ida's  lips  compressed,  her  face  grew  long,  and  she 
went  on  with  her  sewing,  the  needle  and  thread 
fairly  flying. 

"Yes,  somewhat  earlier,  mother,"  was  all  that 
I  could  answer. 

"  Are  you  very  tired,  Thomas  ?  " 

"  Very  tired,  mother  ;  tired  to  death." 

"  You  had  better  rest  this  afternoon." 

"  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  rest." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him  about  the  —  about  the 
position  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  spoke  to  me  ;  but  the  conversation  was 
such  that  I  hardly  got  an  opportunity  to  say  what 
I  intended." 

"  There  is  no  hurry,  Thomas ;  an  opportunity 
will  present  itself." 


ALL  IN  A  WEEK  145 

I  could  contain  myself  no  longer,  and  I  blurted 
out,  "  Oh,  mother,  they  don't  want  me  there.  He 
sent  me  home.  He  is  afraid  that  I  might  get 
hurt."  I  dared  trust  myself  to  speak  no  longer ; 
the  tears  were  pressing  to  my  eyes,  and  I  struggled 
to  hold  them  back  where  a  man's  tears  belong. 

Her  arms  swept  around  my  neck  with  all  the 
warmth  and  the  fervor  of  the  days  of  our  court- 
ship. "  Thomas,  he  is  a  black-hearted,  bad  man.  I 
thank  God  that  you  have  a  home  where  you  won't 
get  hurt,  and  where  you  won't  be  sent  away." 
And  I  thanked  God  for  that,  too. 

Ida  had  never  a  word  to  say ;  her  demure  face 
drew  close,  close  to  her  sewing. 

This  afternoon  Jane  called  ;  the  first  time  since 
her  marriage.  She  had  little  to  inquire  concern- 
ing our  welfare ;  she  had  an  endless  amount  to  say 
about  herself.  "  I  have  had  several  calls  already," 
she  boasted,  "  and  from  very  fashionable  people, 
too.  Quite  surprising,  is  n't  it  ?  Mrs.  Wilkinson 
left  her  card,  but  I  did  n't  happen  to  be  in.  You 
have  seen  her  name  in  the  paper  often,  Mrs.  J.  P. 
Wilkinson  ;  her  husband  is  in  the  hardware  busi- 
ness. Very  prominent  people,  and  so  plain  and 
unassuming ;  just  as  if  they  were  no  better  than 
the  most  ordinary.  I  used  to  sell  her  ribbons  at 
the  store  ;  but  I  hardly  think  she  could  remember 
me.  Would  n't  dream  of  finding  me  where  I  am, 
you  know.  She  was  very  fussy  about  ribbons,  I 
must  admit ;  but  then  that 's  just  a  way  of  society 
people.  I  expect  that  I  shall  get  that  way  myself 
before  long.  Will  wants  me  to  move  right  on  in 


146  POOR  PEOPLE 

that  circle.  Oh,  he  's  got  a  lot  of  ambition,  has 
Will ;  and  he  's  as  ambitious  for  me  as  he  can  be. 
He  knows  some  of  the  men  in  our  neighborhood 
already,  and  he  is  going  to  join  their  club.  His 
name  comes  up  before  the  Friendship  next  week. 
I  am  sure  that  he  will  be  elected,  too.  Why 
shouldn't  he  be?  He  has  just  as  much  money  as 
most  of  them,  and  I  '11  wager  a  great  deal  more,  if 
the  truth  were  only  known.  Will  says  it  is  just  as 
easy  to  move  with  the  best  people  as  with  the 
cheapest.  We  intend  to  give  a  series  of  dinners 
later  on,  and  he  wants  them  as  swell  as  they  can 
be.  Money  to  be  no  object  this  time.  I  know  a 
thing  or  two  about  serving  a  dinner  now,  let  me 
tell  you.  We  did  n't  stay  at  the  best  hotels  for 
nothing.  I  kept  my  eyes  open  and  took  notes.  I 
shan't  let  any  of  the  caterers  dictate  to  me.  I 
know  just  how  things  are  done,  and  I  intend  to 
have  them  just  that  way  and  no  other,  caterer  or 
no  caterer.  I  start  taking  French  lessons  next 
week,  and  Will  starts  with  me.  It  does  n't  matter 
so  much  whether  or  not  you  can  speak  French ; 
it 's  just  to  let  people  know  that  you  are  studying, 
and  interested  in  culture,  and  all  that.  We  '11  have 
our  names  in  the  paper  before  long,  when  we  give 
our  dinners,  see  if  we  don't.  I  learned  that  it 
is  n't  such  a  hard  thing  to  do.  Mrs.  Carter  has 
informed  me  so.  Oh,  I  have  learned  quite  a  num- 
ber of  things  from  her.  She  is  my  neighbor  on 
the  right,  in  the  brown-stone  front.  Her  husband 
has  stock  in  Will's  company,  seventy-five  shares, 
I  think.  She  is  very  kind  about  telling  me  every- 


ALL  IN  A  WEEK  147 

tiling,  not  a  bit  stuck  up.  She  has  such  a  nice, 
tactful  way  of  doing  it  all,  besides.  Just  as  if  she 
were  asking  for  information  instead  of  giving  it, 
you  know.  '  Don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Rounds  ? ' 
is  the  way  she  usually  puts  it.  She  even  told  me 
the  name  of  her  dressmaker,  which  is  quite  a 
favor." 

Thus  Jane.  I  detect  a  change  in  her  already, 
a  slight  but  perceptible  shift  in  her  vocabulary,  in 
her  mannerisms.  These  straws  show  which  way 
the  wind  is  blowing.  I  fear  me  it  will  blow  that 
direction  very  strongly  after  a  while,  and  that  it 
will  be  the  prevailing  wind. 

Jane  has  been  exerting  her  persuasive  powers  to 
the  utmost  to  induce  Ida  to  let  her  sewing  rest  for 
a  while  and  come  to  spend  a  week  or  two  with  her ; 
but  Ida  refused  with  a  firmness  and  vigor  beyond 
her  wont. 

"  Could  n't  think  of  it,  Jane  dear ;  my  place  is 
right  here.  Who  would  take  care  of  father  and 
mother  if  I  were  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  intend  to  have  the  three  of  you  together," 
affirmed  Jane,  poking  the  carpet  with  her  foot, 
"  in  a  little  while,  as  soon  as  we  are  settled." 

There  the  discussion  ended. 

When  Jane  left,  mother  went  out  into  the  hall 
with  her.  I  knew  intuitively  that  the  conversation 
concerned  me. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,  you  may  be  assured,"  I 
heard  Jane  call  out  as  she  hurried  down  the  stairs. 

Mother  returned  to  me  with  her  face  beaming 
and  radiant.  Jane  had  pressed  a  twenty  dollar 


148  POOR  PEOPLE; 

bill  in  her  hand.  Jane  may  have  her  faults,  I  am 
the  last  one  to  deny  that,  but  she  has  a  good  heart 
when  all  is  said  and  done. 

"  Thomas,"  remarked  mother,  when  we  had  re- 
tired for  the  night,  "  don't  you  think  that  we  may 
have  misjudged  our  son-in-law  (somehow  neither 
of  us  can  get  accustomed  to  speaking  of  him  by 
his  first  name)  ?  It  may  be  more  than  possible 
that  you  might  get  hurt  by  the  machinery.  Jane 
told  me  that  he  would  not  allow  her  to  visit  the 
factory  for  the  same  reason." 

"  He  is  an  ideal  husband  and  son-in-law," 
thought  I,  but  I  let  the  reflection  pass  unexpressed. 

"  I  am  quite  sure,"  she  went  on,  "  that  he  will 
find  something  for  you  to  do.  I  wouldn't  have 
you  ask  him  for  anything  in  the  world,  if  I  thought 
he  would  refuse  you ;  but  from  what  Jane  says,  I 
am  positive  that  he  won't.  Will  you  ask  him, 
Thomas ;  or  do  you  think  it  best  to  leave  it  rest  as 
it  is?" 

A  positive  answer  to  her  last  question  is  on  my 
lips ;  but  I  stop  to  consider  Ida,  mother,  all  Jane 
has,  and  all  they  have  not.  Eight  willingly  would 
I  humble  myself  in  the  dust  for  their  sake.  If 
mother  could  bring  herself  to  intercede  with  Jane 
for  me,  why  should  n't  I  go  to  Rounds  for  her  ? 

"  Yes,  mother,"  answered  I,  "  I  will  go  to-mor- 
row." 

Mathilda  falls  asleep,  a  quiet  smile  on  her  worn 
face.  She  dreams  all  will  be  well  for  me.  I  toss 
and  toss  throughout  the  entire  night,  foreknowing 
Rounds' s  ultimatum  as  well  as  if  it  were  already 


ALL  IN  A  WEEK  149 

given.  Pride  goeth  before  a  fall ;  my  pride  will 
not  grow  weary  from  a  long  journey. 

In  the  morning  Mathilda  helped  me  on  with  my 
overcoat  and  surveyed  me  critically,  as  if  to  assure 
herself  that  I  should  n't  lose  the  position  through 
any  fault  of  her  own. 

"Thomas,"  sang  out  mother's  voice  from  the 
open  window,  as  I  shambled  with  hesitating  step 
and  slow  down  the  street. 

I  was  not  taken  unawares;  I  expected  a  final 
word  of  advice. 

"Well,  Mathilda?" 

"  Wait  for  me,  I  am  going  with  you." 

She  has  figured  it  out  with  feminine  mathematics 
that  it  will  be  twice  harder  for  Rounds  to  refuse 
two. 

She  held  fast  to  my  arm,  as  if  to  instill  me  with 
the  hope  and  confidence  that  thrilled  her,  and  thus 
animated  with  new  courage,  I  pushed  intrepidly 
towards  the  office  with  the  brass  plate  "W. 
Rounds.  Private  "  on  the  door.  The  errand  boy 
barred  our  path. 

"  Mr.  Rounds  is  busy ;  you  will  have  to  send  in 
your  card,  sir." 

I  had  no  card  to  send.  "  Tell  him,"  I  paused 
(curiosity  pricking  the  ears  of  the  corps  of  clerks 
interrupted  its  work),  —  "  tell  him  that  his  father- 
in-law  is  here." 

"Good  for  you,  Thomas,"  said  Mathilda  ap- 
provingly. 

The  clerks  grin  and  snicker  behind  their  ledgers 
and  folios.  Calling  dignity  to  our  aid,  Mathilda 


150  POOR  PEOPLE 

and  I  sit  upright  and  grave  on  the  chairs  to  which 
we  have  been  assigned. 

He  kept  us  in  waiting  long  enough  to  satisfy 
the  importance  of  one  thrice  greater.  Finally  the 
boy  announced  that  Mr.  Rounds  was  at  leisure. 

He  greeted  us  stiffly,  opening  with,  "Well, 
what  can  I  do  for  you  this  morning ;  I  am  very 
busy,  you  see." 

Mathilda  pressed  my  hand.  "I  see  that  you 
are  busy,"  replied  I;  "you  have  that  attitude 
which  denotes  business.  I  am  not  busy,  I  regret 
to  say.  I  should  like  to  be  busy,  and  we  —  I 
came  to  see  if  you  could  not  help  me  in  that  direc- 
tion. Any  trifle  around  here  in  the  office  or  else- 
where, such  as  you  have  no  one  else  doing  at  the 
present  time  "  — 

"  To  be  very  frank,"  interrupted  he,  "  I  talked 
the  matter  over  last  night  with  my  wife  "  — 

"  Our  daughter,"  interrupted  Mathilda  this  time, 
red  and  ruffled. 

A  squeeze  from  my  hand  assured  Mathilda  that 
I  commended  her  conduct. 

"  Your  daughter,"  he  affirmed  with  mock  polite- 
ness, "  if  you  prefer.  I  told  her  then,  as  I  must 
tell  you  now,  that  I  don't  think  it  advisable  to  hire 
relatives.  I  would  say  the  same  thing  to  my  own 
brother  or  father.  Business  is  business  with  me. 
The  point  is  just  here,  if  you  hire  a  stranger  and 
he  don't  suit,  out  he  goes.  A  man  need  n't  hesi- 
tate about  discharging  him  for  a  second.  But 
with  a  relative  it  is  different ;  there  is  always  the 
family  to  consider,  and  if  the  work  is  n't  satisfac- 


ALL  IN  A  WEEK  151 

tory  and  a  discharge  follows  —  well,  the  whole 
family,  from  A  to  Z,  is  put  out.  You  catch  the 
point,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Quite,  quite,"  nodded  Mathilda. 

"  Your  reasoning  is  very  logical  and  dispassion- 
ate," said  I. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  are  sensible  enough  to  see 
it  in  that  light." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,"  courtesied 
Mathilda.  I  was  scarcely  able  to  discover  from 
her  voice  whether  she  spoke  in  earnest  or  sarcasm ; 
Eounds  seemed  still  more  perplexed. 

"  Now,  if  there  is  anything  that  I  can  do  for 
you  in  the  way  of  "  — 

"No,  no,  nothing  at  all  in  that  way,  I  thank 
you." 

"  I  just  meant  it  as  a  loan,  you  know." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  reassured  him.  "  Relatives 
ought  not  to  borrow  from  one  another  —  on  the 
same  principle  as  they  ought  not  to  work  for  one 
another  ;  it  is  apt  to  disturb  family  relations." 

"  You  may  be  right,"  said  he. 

"  I  am  sure  that  I  am  right,"  answered  I. 

"Thomas,"  blurted  out  Mathilda,  "Mr.  Eounds 
has  such  a  kind  heart  that  he  does  n't  believe  in 
hiring  relatives,  because  he  can't  bear  to  discharge 
them." 

Her  hand  slipped  in  my  arm ;  and  gathering  her 
skirts,  she  favored  her  son-in-law  with  a  farewell 
bow  that  was  inimitable  and  not  in  the  least  per- 
plexing. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  PAPER   IN  THE  WIND 

THE  desire  for  drink,  springing  upon  Adolph, 
seized  him  by  the  throat.  He  struggled  with  the 
beast  until  his  strength  failed,  his  courage  oozed, 
and  his  heart  grew  faint.  Instead  of  seeking  Ida 
for  assistance,  he  shunned  her.  If  he  were  victo- 
rious, it  would  be  delightful  to  recount  the  battle ; 
if  he  fell  victim  —  it  would  be  better  that  she  did 
not  know. 

And  the  war  waged  a  day  and  a  night.  He 
was  unable  to  sleep ;  he  was  unable  to  work.  He 
was  being  consumed  by  a  single  thought,  he  must 
drink,  he  must  cool  the  burning  fever.  At  mo- 
ments it  seemed  to  him  as  if  sand  were  sifting 
through  his  blood,  drying  his  veins  as  it  ate  its 
way  through  them.  It  was  no  longer  to  be  en- 
dured. He  was  being  whipped  with  a  lash;  he 
had  but  to  step  beyond  its  range  to  free  himself 
from  the  pain  and  the  torture.  He  hastened  over 
to  the  avenue,  oblivious  to  everything  but  the  fact 
that  he  must  quench  his  thirst.  He  was  an  Arab, 
who  sees  the  refreshing  green  of  the  oasis  after 
the  protracted  dreary  march  through  the  desert. 

He  had  reached  the  saloon.  He  hesitated  for 
a  second.  He  had  stood  face  to  face  before  the 


THE  PAPER  IN  THE  WIND  153 

enemy  in  his  past  in  combats  equally  desperate, 
and  he  had  been  the  victor;  he  had  conquered 
himself  before  when  the  spoils  of  his  triumph  had 
been  but  an  idle  tribute  of  passion  to  will.  If  he 
won  now,  he  might  bear  passion  in  chains  and  lay 
it  submissive  at  love's  feet. 

He  rushed  on. 

Some  one  caught  him  by  the  arm.  "  Hello, 
Adolph!" 

It  was  Schmitt  the  actor. 

"  What 's  your  hurry,  where  are  you  running 
to?"  asked  Schmitt,  in  German.  "One  might 
think  that  the  devil  was  after  you." 

"  There  may  be  more  truth  than  poetry  in  that," 
answered  Adolph  lugubriously. 

"  We  can  give  him  the  slip  easy  enough.  Come 
in  here.  Let 's  have  a  drink.  I  have  n't  seen  you 
in  a  long  time,  and  I  have  a  heap  to  tell  you. 
I  've  got  a  business  proposition  to  make." 

Schmitt  swung  open  the  screen  door,  Adolph 
followed ;  it  seemed  that  a  chain  of  iron  was  tied 
to  his  foot,  dragging  him  where  it  listed. 

You  would  never  have  taken  Schmitt  for  an 
actor  —  not  even  on  the  stage,  perhaps.  He  was 
undersized  and  over  fat.  His  brown  hair,  cut 
close,  ran  down  on  his  low  forehead  almost  to  his 
flat,  well-nigh  African  nose.  His  eyes  were  long 
and  small,  his  mouth  flabby  and  large  —  in  truth, 
his  whole  face  had  a  horizontal  pull. 

Passing  through  the  saloon,  they  walked  into 
the  small  summer-garden  at  the  side.  It  was  one 
of  those  last  of  April  days  that  give  a  hint  as  well 


154:  POOR  PEOPLE 

as  an  earnest  of  a  beautiful  May.  A  group  of 
men  and  women  sat  in  a  corner  about  an  oblong 
rustic  table. 

"  There  's  the  troupe,"  said  Schmitt. 

Adolph  knew  them  all ;  he  had  made  his  first 
appearance  in  that  company.  When  he  left  their 
ranks,  no  one  was  a  whit  the  more  intimate  with 
him  than  on  the  day  of  his  enlistment.  They 
greeted  him  with  indifferent  cordiality. 

There  was  Fraulein  Graff,  who  labored  times 
without  number  to  win  Adolph' s  love,  all  because 
he  was  absolutely  unimpressionable,  and  who  ended 
by  hating  him  for  his  induration  to  her  seductive 
charms.  There  was  Fraulein  Keller,  tall,  languor- 
ous-eyed, commanding,  who  was  forever  boasting 
that  she  might  have  climbed  to  the  top  rung  on 
the  ladder  of  fame,  if  she  had  been  only  fortunate 
enough  to  have  begun  life  on  the  English  stage. 
Her  voice  was  monotonous,  weak,  and  colorless, 
never  rising  above  a  certain  key.  She  retained 
her  position  through  her  good  looks.  There  was 
Schmitt's  wife,  who  resembled  him  closely  enough 
to  be  his  sister.  The  roles  which  the  other  women 
refused  generally  fell  to  her.  There  was  Frau 
Bauer,  the  widow,  who  was  forty  at  the  least ;  she 
was  the  company's  leading  juvenile,  her  small  fea- 
tures and  her  smaller  stature,  relatively  speaking, 
fitting  her  for  the  position  naturally.  There  was 
her  daughter,  a  child  of  six,  who  had  learned  to 
lisp  on  the  stage.  There  was  Herr  Mueller,  who 
courted  Frau  Bauer  assiduously ;  the  Herr  could 
play  any  instrument,  sing  any  song,  play  any  part. 


THE  PAPER  IN  THE  WIND  155 

He  was  Jack-at-all-trades,  and  never  out  of  a  job. 
Fraulein  Keller  and  Frau  Bauer  were  both  desper- 
ately enamored  of  the  Herr's  fascinating  accom- 
plishments, and  he  drove  them  both,  according  to 
his  humor,  into  distraction.  Lastly  came  Herr 
Koerner,  half  acrobat  and  half  tragedian,  and  not 
half  good  in  either,  who  favored  a  Frenchman 
with  his  imperial,  and  who  thought  the  whole 
French  race  must  be  flattered  by  the  favor.  He 
paid  continuous  court  to  Fraulein  Graff,  but  she 
was  perfectly  free  to  confess  that  she  did  n't  care 
a  straw  about  him.  Last  came  several  new  mem- 
bers whom  Adolph  did  not  know,  but  they  evi- 
dently knew  him  by  reputation ;  for  he  overheard 
one  of  them  ask,  "  Is  that  the  '  Iceberg '  ?  " 

For  theatrical  folk  they  took  life  seriously 
enough.  The  women  were  either  sewing  or  cro- 
cheting ;  the  men  were  talking  in  low  tones,  as  if 
considering  some  important  transaction.  Exist- 
ence was  a  problem  for  them ;  a  week  here,  a  week 
there ;  then  two  weeks  nowhere.  Day  and  night 
was  a  continuous  grind  of  rehearsing  new  plays 
and  acting  old  ones. 

Their  seriousness  vanished  only  too  quickly 
when  the  wine  began  to  flow;  for  Schmitt,  who 
happened  to  be  flush,  would  consent  to  nothing 
else  but  wine,  much  to  the  consternation  of  his 
wife.  She  whispered  to  him  admonishingly ;  he 
requested  her  sharply  to  tend  her  own  affairs,  and 
the  whole  company  laughed. 

Adolph  lifted  Frau  Bauer's  daughter  on  his 
knee.  She  was  an  attractive  child,  surcharged 


156  POOR  PEOPLE 

with  health  and  vitality,  her  complexion  pink  as  a 
rose-leaf.  What  a  life,  what  an  environment  for 
a  youngster!  thought  Adolph.  His  heart  went 
out  to  the  neglected,  untaught  soul,  left  to  her 
own  resources,  free  to  pluck  whatever  poisonous 
flowers  she  would  from  the  miasmatic  soil.  The 
girl  clung  to  Adolph  affectionately,  discovering 
with  the  infallible  intuition  of  childhood  that  she 
had  chanced  upon  some  one  to  love  and  protect 
her.  The  mother  called,  but  she  would  not  desert 
her  new  friend.  "You  see,"  whined  Frau  Bauer, 
"what  a  child  I  have;  nothing  will  make  her 
mind ;  she  does  as  she  chooses,  and  if  she  goes 
wrong  she  will  blame  me ; "  and  straightway  she 
assaulted  Herr  Mueller  with  all  the  batteries  of 
her  eyes,  her  white  teeth,  her  glances,  her  smiles. 
But  all  her  well-directed  charges  fell  wide  of  the 
mark ;  the  Herr  was  lost  in  dreamy  reverie  with 
Fraulein  Keller. 

The  wine  was  having  its  effect;  and  being  a 
cheap  wine,  the  effect  followed  the  cause  with  a 
rapidity  that  was  wonderful.  A  good-natured 
badinage  began.  In  a  few  minutes  what  had  been 
said  in  fun  was  taken  up  in  earnest,  and  badinage 
passed  to  bickering,  and  bickering  swept  into  the 
dangerous  border-line  of  quarrel. 

"  If  I  had  only  started  on  the  English  stage," 
complained  Fraulein  Keller,  "  I  might  be  as  great 
as  Ellen  Terry ;  her  acting  has  been  compared  to 
mine  often." 

"  If  —  if,"  retorted  Frau  Bauer,  "  I  could  speak 
French  as  well  as  Madame  Bernhardt,  I  would  be 
the  greatest  actress  on  the  French  stage." 


THE  PAPER  IN  THE  WIND  157 

The  Fraulein  lost  her  temper  completely.  "  You 
can't  act  in  any  language ;  you  ought  to  be  proud 
to  appear  in  the  same  company  with  me." 

"  I  depend  on  something  else  besides  looks  for 
my  position,"  retorted  the  other. 

"  That 's  fortunate,"  came  the  quick  response, 
"otherwise  you  would  never  have  a  position." 

Herr  Mueller  was  appealed  to  as  referee.  He 
decided  that  one  person  could  not  have  everything ; 
Frau  Bauer  had  the  brains  and  the  talent,  Fraulein 
Keller  the  looks.  The  verdict  was  satisfying  to 
neither.  Each  claimed  both.  Fraulein  Graff  sided 
with  Frau  Bauer.  "  It  was  none  of  her  business, 
but  she  could  never  see  where  Fraulein  Keller's 
good  looks  came  in."  This  involved  Herr  Koerner 
and  Herr  Mueller  in  a  quarrel  within  a  second's 
time.  They  began  a  fierce  duel  of  words,  opposing 
their  long  and  inexhaustible  list  of  excellences 
against  each  other.  The  manager  thumped  on 
the  table  with  his  heavy  stick. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  spoke  he,  "  how  often 
have  I  to  tell  you  that  you  are  like  a  watch  (he 
lifted  his  large  silver  timepiece  in  his  hand  and 
held  it  aloft)  :  if  one  wheel  of  the  watch  stops  to 
call  the  other  wheel  names,  can  the  watch  run? 
Certainly  not!  Every  wheel  has  its  work;  one 
wheel  for  this,  the  other  wheel  for  that.  Each 
wheel  thinks  it  is  the  most  important,  but  one 
wheel  thinks  it  is  just  as  good  as  the  other ;  they 
must  all  go,  or  the  watch  can't  tell  the  right  time." 

He  sat  down,  mopping  his  brow,  perspiring  from 
the  tax  levied  by  his  oratorical  effort.  The  logic 


158  POOR  PEOPLE 

wrought  a  general  amnesty.  Adolph  smiled;  he 
had  heard  the  same  speech  a  thousand  times,  and 
he  had  never  known  it  to  lose  effect  for  the  minute. 
There  came  more  wine  and  less  quarreling ;  in 
fact,  as  the  wine  increased,  the  tierce  and  carte  of 
personalities  diminished. 

"  I  'm  getting  tired  of  Mueller,"  whispered 
Schmitt  to  Adolph;  "he  is  getting  so  conceited 
that  there  is  no  getting  along  with  him.  He 
makes  half  the  trouble.  He  thinks  that  if  he 
leaves,  the  company  will  disband.  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  let  him  quit  Saturday  night  after 
the  performance.  I  want  you  to  take  his  place." 

Adolph  shook  his  head.  "  I  've  had  enough  of 
the  stage.  Besides,  I  can't  sing." 

Schmitt  pondered  for  a  second.  "  That 's  true ; 
but  we  will  find  a  way  out  of  that.  Just  you  say 
you  '11  come,  and  I  '11  find  a  place  for  you." 

Adolph  remained  firm.  He  wondered  how  he 
had  been  able  to  breathe  in  that  atmosphere,  me- 
phitic  with  petty  squabbles,  silly  jealousy,  narrow 
ideas,  vulgarity,  and  tinsel  tawdriness. 

"  We  're  going  to  be  here  another  week  at  the 
Academy,  then  we  're  going  to  work  our  way  east- 
ward slowly.  If  you  change  your  mind,  come  to 
see  me.  By  the  way,  have  you  got  a  German  play 
that  you  want  to  sell  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  've  got  a  play  that  I  think  will  suit  you. 
A  German-American  play,  with  the  action  half 
laid  in  Germany,  the  other  half  in  America.  It 
ought  to  be  just  the  thing  for  your  theatre  public. 
I  wrote  part  of  the  thing  when  I  was  with  you, 
over  three  years  ago." 


THE  PAPER  IN  THE  WIND  159 

"  Bring  it  along  and  let  me  see  it.  If  it  is  what 
I  want,  I  '11  give  you  fifty  dollars  down,  and  the 
other  fifty  when  I  can." 

Fraulein  Graff  took  a  seat  beside  Adolph,  much 
to  the  chagrin  of  Herr  Koerner  and  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  others.  She  sought  to  engage  him  in 
a  conversation  about  the  good  old  days,  her  caress- 
ing glances  eager  to  thaw  his  frigidness  with  their 
burning  warmth.  Adolph  refused  to  thaw.  The 
company  laughed  aloud;  Herr  Koerner's  guffaw 
rising  bold  and  clear  in  the  general  chorus.  Sud- 
denly Adolph  became  aware  of  the  imminence  of 
a  renewal  of  hostilities.  He  caused  a  disarmament 
by  tactfully  dividing  his  attention  between  the 
enraged  Romeo  and  the  disquieted  Juliet.  Herr 
Mueller,  whom  the  wine  had  made  ebullient,  began 
the  "  Gaudeamus,"  and  all  joined  in,  Adolph  in- 
cluded. He  began  to  envisage  the  world  with  a 
golden  halo. 

It  was  almost  dusk  when  Adolph  staggered 
homeward,  constantly  compromising  between  his 
right  leg  and  his  left  to  maintain  a  balance. 

He  reached  the  corner  just  as  Ida  passed  on  her 
way  to  the  sweat-shop  with  her  bundle. 

She  saw  him  waver  along  and  she  stood  still,  af- 
frighted, scarcely  able  to  realize  what  it  all  meant. 
Then  its  significance  flashed  and  thundered  across 
her  mind.  Her  cheeks  flushed  with  pity  and 
humiliation. 

"  Let  me  carry  your  bundle."  His  hand  finally 
reached  the  brim  of  his  hat,  but  failed  in  the 
attempt  to  lift  it  from  his  head.  A  sensation 


160  POOR  PEOPLE 

of  repulsion  overcoming  her,  she  drew  back.  He 
lunged  forward,  and  fell  beside  her. 

She  stifled  the  cry  of  pain,  and  ran  on  as  fast 
as  she  could  run. 

He  pulled  himself  to  his  feet  and  looked  around. 
She  was  gone.  Even  in  his  stupor  he  was  awake 
to  the  full  meaning  and  bitter  consequence  of  his 
defection.  He  was  fairly  shocked  into  sobriety. 
His  step  became  surer  and  steadier.  He  felt  as 
if  he  were  carrying  a  heart  of  lead,  and  as  if  the 
rest  of  his  body  had  no  weight  whatsoever. 


CHAPTER  XVIH 

DUTY 

ADOLPH  staggered  past  me  on  the  stairs.  My 
grief  and  pain  were  greater  than  my  surprise; 
it  was  not  the  first  time  that  I  had  beheld  him 
thus.  I  have  seen  him  once  before  —  I  believe 
twice  —  when  under  the  influence  of  liquor ;  more- 
over, several  quidnuncs  have  taken  pains  to  inform 
me  that  he  is  addicted  to  the  habit,  and  I  know 
full  well  how  inexorable  is  the  law  of  heredity. 

I  must  speak  to  Ida  to-night.  I  have  dreaded 
and  shirked  the  duty  for  a  long  time,  now  hiding 
my  head  in  the  shifting  sands  of  procrastination, 
now  silencing  conscience  with  the  argument  that 
when  the  bad  bridge  came,  other  means  of  crossing 
the  stream  would  discover  themselves.  How  ready 
is  the  imagination  to  put  a  boat,  oared  and  manned, 
under  every  weak  bridge  that  spans  the  terrible 
stream  of  actualities.  I  shall  positively  speak 
to-night ;  the  longer  I  defer,  the  deeper  will  be  the 
heartache  for  her  and  for  me.  Alas,  to  spoil  love's 
young  dream  !  Poor  Adolph,  poor  Ida  !  How  my 
sympathy  goes  out  to  both  of  them.  I  scarcely 
know  whom  I  pity  the  more.  "  Even  unto  the  thirdk  * 
and  the  fourth  generation,"  how  cruel,  how  incom- 
prehensibly cruel ! 


162  POOR  PEOPLE 

Ida's  manner,  the  expression  on  her  face,  the 
nervous  twiddling  of  her  fingers,  tell  me  that  she 
has  a  secret  to  unburden.  She  is  paler  than  ever ; 
cloud-darkened  and  woebegone  her  face.  She 
seems  to  have  aged  by  a  year.  I  wonder  if  she 
could  have  caught  sight  of  Adolph  in  his  pathetic 
plight  ?  I  hope  not ;  the  shock  would  be  too  great 
for  her  delicate,  high-strung  nature.  I  would  far 
rather  tell  her  —  I  can  break  the  sad  news  gently 
and  by  degrees.  Oh,  why  did  n't  I  impart  my  fears 
long  ago ! 

We  are  alone  ;  mother  has  gone  to  bed.  Ida 
sits  there  so  quiet  and  still ;  it  is  the  quiet  of  the 
prisoner  in  chains  ;  of  the  fretful  spirit  weighted 
down  by  gloom  and  depression.  She  will  speak 
in  a  minute.  I  give  her  all  the  encouragement  in 
the  world.  I  turn  my  troubled  thoughts  over  and 
over  in  my  mind.  How  shall  I  put  them  in  the 
kindest  and  gentlest  manner  ? 

"Father,"  comes  her  subdued  voice. 

"  Yes,  Ida." 

"  I  saw  Adolph  to-night." 

«  Yes." 

She  has  left  her  chair  to  perch  herself  on  my 
knee. 

" He  was "  —  how  she  throbs  —  "he  was  —  he 
wasn't  as  he  usually  is." 

"  I  saw  him  too,  Ida." 

"  To-night  ?  " 

"Yes,  Ida." 

"  Then  you  know." 

"Y-e-s." 


DUTY  163 

"  He  has  told  me  long  ago  —  I  knew  it  —  he  has 
been  very  honest !  " 

"Ah!" 

"I  thought  he  would  give  it  up — for  my  sake. 
He  told  me  that  he  promised  his  mother  on  her 
death-bed  that "  — 

She  is  sobbing  aloud ;  she  can  go  no  farther. 

"  You  are  only  eating  your  heart  out,  Ida  deary ; 
you  are  giving  your  love  to  a  man —  It  can't 
lead  anywhere  except  to  sorrow  and  regret.  It 
is  n't  for  yourself  so  much,  or  him ;  but  supposing 
if  —  if,  Ida,  you  marry  and  have  children  and  they 
inherit  the  curse  ?  " 

"  I  know ;  I  have  thought  it  all  out  myself." 

"  You  must  not  see  him  any  more.  I  blame  my- 
self for  this,  very  much.  I  knew  it  all  before.  I 
should  n't  have  let  it  go  on.  You  must  —  you 
must  give  him  up,  Ida  dear." 

She  is  so  white,  so  limp,  that  I  fear  that  she  will 
faint.  She  clings  to  me  convulsively  now. 

"I  can't,  father." 

I  steel  my  heart.  I  must  be  cruel.  I  must  be 
harsh. 

"  You  must  give  him  up,  Ida." 

"  I  can't  father  ;   I  can't.     It  will  kill  me." 

«  Ah,  Ida." 

I  draw  her  closer,  closer ;  our  souls  are  locked 
in  an  embrace.  I  strive  for  self-control. 

"  You  must  give  him  up,  Ida ;  it  can  lead  no- 
where, to  nothing  but  disappointment,  and  regret, 
and  a  broken  heart." 

"  But  I  will  suffer  it  for  his  sake  —  anything ! 


164:  POOR  PEOPLE 

I  love  him  more  now  —  better  than  ever  —  I  feel 
that  he  needs  me  more.  I  can't  tell  you  why  — 
I  can't  explain  it  —  I  feel  more." 

"Ah,  Ida." 

She  hides  her  head  on  my  breast  and  cries.  I 
shall  be  lost  in  a  minute.  I  must  struggle  on.  I 
must  be  cruel,  to  be  kind. 

"  But  it  must  end  some  time,  Ida  dearest ;  and 
the  longer  you  put  the  end  off,  the  more  distressing 
will  it  be  for  him  and  for  you.  And  all  the  tor- 
ment and  suffering  in  the  mean  time — it  is  all  for 
naught.  You  can  never  marry." 

"  I  don't  care  about  that ;  I  don't  care  a  bit 
about  that,  father.  Just  to  be  near  him,  to  hear 
him  talk,  to  listen  to  him,  to  do  what  he  asks,  to 
obey  him.  Father,  father,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I 
long  to  go  to  him  to-night  —  I  should  not  have  run 
away.  I  may  have  hurt  him  —  that  is  what  is 
paining  me  so." 

Her  love  appalls  me.  Who  could  have  thought 
her  capable  of  such  depth  and  intensity  of  pas- 
sion? 

"Listen,  dearest,  listen.  God  knows  how  it 
pains  me  to  say  all  this,  and  how  much  rather, 
how  many  thousand  times  rather,  I  would  leave  it 
all  unsaid.  But  supposing  —  no,  it  is  n't  suppos- 
ing, it  is  real,  it  must  come  ;  the  time,  I  mean,  when 
he  asks  you  to  marry  him,  and  you  will  have  to 
say,  '  no.'  It  will  crush  him  and  you.  Go  to  him 
now,  while  there  is  time,  when  you  ought  to  go  and 
tell  him.  It  will  be  very  hard,  awful  hard  —  the 
hardest  thing  that  any  one  ever  has  to  do ;  but  you 


DUTY  165 

are  a  brave  girl,  and  you  will  go  —  for  his  sake, 
and  mine,  and  your  mother's,  and  your  own." 

She  gives  me  no  answer.  Her  tears  cease,  she 
sobs  no  longer.  Her  face  is  drawn  and  white  ;  her 
breathing  is  deep  and  slow.  Midnight  has  come. 
I  have  kissed  her  good-night.  Still  no  answer. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  TISSUE   OF  DKEAMS 

ALL  entreaty  is  without  avail;  Ida  will  never 
consent  to  give  Adolph  up.  She  remains  steadfast 
and  unshaken.  Even  mother's  added  persuasion 
has  not  served  to  tip  the  balance  to  the  right  or  the 
left. 

I  have  resolved  to  appeal  to  Adolph.  I  pay 
homage  to  his  bravery  and  nobility ;  I  am  sure 
that  he  will  deem  no  sacrifice  that  is  made  in  her 
behalf  too  heroic.  It  is  the  same  as  if  I  were 
beseeching  my  own  son  to  forsake,  on  account  of 
some  inherited  defect,  one  whom  he  adored  and 
I  loved.  I  am  the  culpable  one.  I  should  have 
interfered  long  before  acquaintanceship  ripened 
into  love.  I  shall  visit  Adolph  this  morning ;  it 
is  mere  madness  to  defer  longer. 

I  found  him  occupied  with  his  watches.  He 
looked  up  contritely,  as  if  alive  to  the  fact  that  I 
had  witnessed  his  shame. 

How  difficult  it  is  to  begin  !  He  might  divine 
the  purpose  of  my  errand  and  start  the  conversa- 
tion himself.  I  discover  that  there  is  no  possi- 
bility of  this  desire  being  fulfilled. 

Unbidden  I  have  laid  my  hat  on  the  bench, 
seated  myself,  and  drawn  my  chair  up  to  his. 


THE  TISSUE  OF  DREAMS  167 

"  My  son,"  I  began  (the  unusual  form  of  address 
evoked  a  quick,  searching  glance  of  surprise),  — 
"  my  son,  Ida  told  me  some  time  ago  that  she  — 
that  she  esteemed  you  highly ;  to  be  perfectly  can- 
did, she  has  confessed  to  me  that  she  —  that  she 
loves  you." 

He  faces  me ;  those  sharp  eyes  bore  through 
mine.  His  hand  moves  to  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  I  have  concluded  from  different  things  which 
I  have  observed  from  time  to  time  that  you  —  that 
you  are  quite  as  deeply  attached  to  her  ?  " 

I  stated  my  declaration  in  the  form  of  a  ques- 
tion ;  I  waited  for  an  answer. 

"  I  am  free  to  acknowledge,  Mr.  Wilson,  that  I 
am  deeply  attached  to  her." 

His  hands  slip  down  in  the  depths  of  his  pockets, 
his  large  head  bends  on  his  long  neck  towards  his 
breast,  hopelessly,  resignedly,  like  a  man  who 
awaits  an  unavoidable  blow. 

I  gather  myself  to  make  the  decisive  effort.  "  I 
don't  wish  to  cause  you  any  pain  —  heaven  for- 
bid that  I  should  afflict  you  more  willingly  than 
her  !  —  but  I  pleaded  with  Ida  half  the  night ;  I 
begged;  I  implored  her —  It  has  all  been  in 
vain.  I  come  to  ask  your  assistance.  I  am  con- 
vinced, after  a  long  deliberation,  that  it  would  be 
better  if"  — 

He  remains  silent,  staring  as  if  he  had  not 
heard.  A  like  shadow  darkened  Ida's  face  when  I 
told  her  that  she  must  surrender  love  to  reason. 

I  feel  my  way,  groping  onward  painfully.  "  She 
loves  you  deeper  than  I  had  any  reason  to  suspect, 


168  POOR  PEOPLE 

more  than  I  thought  it  was  in  her  nature  to 
love  ;  but  you  will  help  me  to  —  Adolph,  there 
is  always  some  one  besides  one's  self  to  consider. 
You  must  look  beyond  yourselves.  If  you  were 
to  bring  children  into  this  world  and  they  should 
inherit  this  —  taste  —  this  "  — 

He  speaks  unexpectedly :  — 

"  I  felt  this  was  coming.  I  knew  it  last  night. 
It  is  all  as  I  forevisioned  it.  Give  her  up  ?  Give 
her  up  ?  Do  you  know  what  this  means,  do  you 
know  what  you  ask,  Mr.  Wilson  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  You  can't  know.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had 
been  hanging  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff  by  my  fingers, 
and  the  heavy  foot  of  the  world  trampled  on  them 
ruthlessly  to  make  me  release  my  grasp  and  fall ; 
then  she  came  and  lifted  me  out  of  danger  and 
helped  me  to  regain  my  footing.  Now  you  come 
to  ask  me  to  give  her  up,  to  let  her  hand  go,  and 
sink?" 

He  has  arisen  ;  he  stands  against  the  bench,  his 
hands  clutching  it  nervously. 

I  went  to  him  and  laid  both  my  hands  on  his 
shoulders. 

"  You  are  a  brave  lad,  God  reward  you !  God 
help  all  of  us !  I  could  not  love  my  own  son  more. 
I  am  far  from  blaming  you  or  her ;  you  appealed 
to  each  other ;  you  could  not  help  it ,  it  was  by 
the  law  of  your  natures.  But  it  must  be,  Adolph. 
What  can  come  of  it?  Where  will  it  all  end? 
You  would  n't  want  "  — 

"  I  understand ;  I  have  considered  all  that ;  I 


THE  TISSUE  OF  DREAMS  169 

should  n't  have  let  her ;  I  should  n't  have  permit- 
ted myself.  It  was  wrong,  I  know  it ;  but  she  has 
meant  so  much  to  me  ;  she  has  made  life  so  differ- 
ent. I  deluded  myself,  perhaps.  I  felt  sure  that 
I  might  conquer  it.  If  you  knew  how  I  fought 
against  it,  the  terrible  battle  that  has  gone  on  in 
this  room.  How  I  have  struggled  for  her  sake 
and  for  mine  !  " 

"  Adolph,  before  it  is  too  late,  before  your  life 
is  ruined,  and  hers  —  it  must  come  some  time  — 
the  sooner  it  does  come,  the  more  pain  will  you 
both  be  spared." 

He  reels  slightly.  Then  he  stands  upright, 
away  from  the  bench,  his  fists  clenched  as  if  he 
would  strike  an  invisible  enemy  approaching  to 
take  him  from  her. 

"  I  will  do  as  you  say.  It  is  best.  I  have 
thought  so  myself.  I  have  gradually  been  reach- 
ing self-control ;  I  am  positive  that  I  shall  attain 
it.  But  in  such  cases  one  dare  not  trust  in  faith. 
I  would  n't  have  you  believe  that  I  am  selfish, 
that  I  only  consider  myself.  I  have  thought  of 
it  often;  I  have  been  thinking  of  little  else.  I 
have  considered  it  in  every  light.  But  after  all  it 
did  look  to  me  as  if  I  had  the  right  to  be  happy. 
But  if  the  happiness  is  to  be  at  her  expense,  when 
she  might  be  better  off  without  me  —  with  another 
—  I  shall  do  as  you  say.  Send  her  to  me.  She 
will  never  find  out  from  me  that  a  word  has  passed 
between  us.  You  will  let  her  speak  to  me  —  just 
this  once  —  the  last  time,  perhaps." 

I  endeavored  to  let  him  know  how  his  noble 


170  POOR  PEOPLE 

conduct  has  endeared  him  to  me  more  than  ever. 
I  ventured  to  speak ;  the  tears  seemed  to  drop 
scalding  from  my  eyes  to  my  throat. 

"  I  will  send  her,"  I  faltered,  leaving  the  room. 

Ida  found  him  as  I  had  left  him. 

"  Father  just  told  me  that  you  had  something 
to  say  to  me.  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  coming 
up  to  see  you  anyway." 

"  Yes,  I  asked  him  to  send  you  to  me,"  he  an- 
swered, for  once  his  eyes  turning  from  her  to  the 
ground. 

The  dolefulness  of  voice  and  countenance  has- 
tened her  intended  apology :  "  I  want  to  ask  your 
forgiveness.  I  ran  away  yesterday.  I  did  n't  mean 
to.  I  was  frightened  —  just  for  the  moment ; 
that  was  all.  I  turned  to  go  back ;  but  it  was  too 
late." 

"  Forgive  you,  forgive  you  ?  You  ask  my  for- 
giveness, little  saint ! " 

He  draws  her  to  him.  Her  head  nestles  on  his 
shoulder,  her  arms  sweep  over  his  neck.  It  is  an 
ocean,  a  storm,  an  upheaval  of  emotion  that  she 
is  powerless  to  resist. 

His  mind  runs  up  and  down  a  hundred  paths 
of  explanation.  On  which  is  it  best  to  lead  her  ? 
Which  is  shortest?  Which  will  cost  her  least 
pain  ?  This  tangle  of  mental  roads  confuses  him  ; 
the  words  seem  to  arise  of  their  own  volition,  with- 
out regard  to  his  will. 

"  Ida,  I  am  going  away ;  I  must  leave  the  city 
soon." 

She  clings  to  him  with  all  her  strength.    "  You 


THE  TISSUE  OF  DREAMS  171 

are  going  away?  Why?  Where?  For  how 
long  ?  "  She  apprehends  but  dimly  the  meaning 
of  his  assertion. 

"  I  am  going,  dearest,  because  I  think  that  it 
is  the  best  thing  that  I  can  do  for  you  and  for 
me." 

She  stands  aloof  from  him.  "  Father  has  asked 
you  to  go  ?  He  is  sending  you !  " 

"  No,  no,  your  father  has  said  nothing  to  me." 

"  I  shall  go  with  you ;  I  will  not  stay  here  with- 
out you.  It  will  kill  me."  She  rests  in  his  arms 
again. 

"  Hush,  Ida  dear,  you  must  be  brave." 

"  But  you  have  n't  told  me  why  you  are  going. 
Tell  me—  Why?" 

A  flare  of  intuition ;  her  mind  perceives  the 
truth  as  by  the  flame  of  a  torch  that  flickers  a 
brief  second  in  the  darkness  and  dies.  She  prays 
his  words  may  prove  a  horrid  premonition  —  a 
phantom  of  her  super-excited  fancy. 

"  I  have  told  you  before  —  often.  Why  go  over 
that  sorry  tale  again?  Let  us  spare  each  other 
the  pain." 

Then  she  knew  that  she  had  seen  truly  by  the 
flare  of  the  torch,  and  she  shuddered. 

"  You  shan't  go  away  on  that  account.  You 
will  stay  here  and  conquer  yourself  —  and  then  — 
a  man,  a  strong  man,  a  man  with  your  will  and 
intelligence,  can  do  anything.  You  will  stay? 
You  will  try?" 

"  I  have  tried  —  you  know  how  I  have  tried. 
It  is  useless." 


172  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  We  will  bear  it  together,  then ;  you  will  be 
stroDger  with  me.  We  will  rise  or  fall  as  one." 

Affectionately  his  hands  smooth  her  hair. 
"  Dear,  true  little  soul,  I  can't  permit  that  —  I 
can't  —  I  can't." 

"  But,  Adolph  dear,  God  surely  would  reward  us 
for  the  struggle ;  it  would  turn  out  right ;  it  must ! 
Have  faith.  Trust  in  yourself.  Anything  we 
endure  together  is  better  than  being  separated. 
Say  that  you  will  have  me,  that  you  won't  go 
away." 

They  remained  silent,  breathless,  clinging  to 
each  other.  It  was  as  if  they  feared  that  the  next 
minute  a  boat  would  start  which  was  to  carry  one 
away  from  the  other,  across  the  seas,  forever. 

"  Ida,  go,  dear  ;  you  will  rob  me  of  my  will  — 
I  must  not  give  way  to  myself  —  I  can't  permit 
it-go!" 

He  kisses  her  hand,  her  forehead,  her  eyes,  her 
lips,  her  hair.  He  fears  his  strength.  He  stands 
aghast,  seeing  resolution  slip  through  his  relaxing 
grasp. 

"  Go,  dearest ;  go  now  —  it  is  best." 

She  has  left.  On  his  bared  hands  and  knees 
he  would  have  crawled  over  the  ground,  strewn 
with  bits  of  broken  glass,  to  have  kissed  her  out- 
stretched hand. 


CHAPTER  XX 

LAST  WOKDS 

ADOLPH  departs  to-day  ;  he  leaves  for  the  East 
with  a  company  of  German  actors.  It  makes  but 
little  difference  to  him,  I  fear,  whither  he  goes  or 
what  he  does.  He  appeared  stolid  and  indiffer- 
ent ;  but  he  was  kind  to  me  even  beyond  his  wont, 
as  if  his  great  disappointment  had  made  him  more 
sensitive  to  the  misery  of  others.  He  had  not  a 
word  to  say  about  his  prospects  or  his  ambitions, 
not  a  complaint  to  utter  about  the  wrecking  of  his 
most  cherished  desire  ;  yet  he  conversed  cheerfully 
about  my  opera.  "  You  might  let  me  take  it  with 
me,  Mr.  Wilson,"  said  he  ;  "I  am  going  to  visit 
the  market  for  such  products,  and  if  it  can  be 
sold,  the  chances  there  are  most  favorable.  I  shall 
do  my  level  best,  you  may  rely  upon  that." 

It  was  the  staggering  blow  which  good  returns 
to  evil.  Perhaps  I  was  wrong;  it  might  have 
been  better  to  have  let  these  young  people  work 
out  their  own  destiny,  trusting  to  Providence  for 
their  salvation.  I  have  done  what  I  thought  best. 
Dear  God,  I  am  only  poor,  weak  Thomas  Wilson. 

I  grasped  his  hand  warmly,  and  without  the 
saying  of  a  word,  I  delivered  the  missive  which 
Ida  had  intrusted  to  me  and  left  the  room.  In 


174  POOR  PEOPLE 

the  hallway  I  reproached  myself  for  my  weakness. 
A  farewell,  warm  from  the  heart,  came  gushing  to 
my  lips.  I  hastened  back ;  not  daring  to  trust 
myself,  I  retraced  my  steps.  Ah,  that  last  clasp 
of  hands  conveyed  all  that  I  could  say ! 

Fearful  lest  it  contain  aught  unmaidenly,  Ida 
let  me  read  her  letter  before  she  sealed  it.  Every 
sentence  is  burned  in  my  memory. 

DEAREST,  —  I  have  concluded  that  you  were 
quite  right  when  you  said  that  it  would  be  better 
not  to  see  each  other  once  more  before  your  de- 
parture. I  am  afraid  it  would  kill  me  to  bid  you 
good-by  again.  I  could  not  realize  that  you  were 
going  away  until  now.  It  seemed  impossible.  I 
kept  thinking  that  something  would  intervene  to 
keep  you  here.  It  was  just  a  childlike  faith  that 
because  I  needed  you  and  wanted  you,  nothing 
could  take  you  from  me.  But  you  are  going  to- 
day ;  you  are  going  after  all.  Perhaps  it  is  best 
for  you,  and  I  must  make  myself  believe  that  it  is 
best  for  me. 

I  am  only  a  very,  very  simple  little  girl  —  I 
have  told  you  that  so  often  that  if  I  tell  it  to  you 
again  you  may  deem  me  insincere  —  and  you  are 
so  clever  and  so  far  superior  to  me  that  I  may  be 
suffering  a  deserved  punishment  for  daring  to 
aspire  so  high  above  me.  Still  you  always  declared 
that  you  saw  much  in  me,  and  that  my  love  meant 
so  much  to  you,  and  that  you  never  cared  what  I 
knew  or  what  I  did  n't  know ;  you  loved  me  for 
my  own  sake,  you  used  to  say,  and  I  believe  that 


LAST  WORDS  175 

is  so  much  better  than  loving  one  for  cleverness, 
or  knowledge,  or  beauty,  or  anything  that  is  part 
of  one  and  yet  not  one.  And  your  love  made  me 
so  happy  and  proud  that  my  life  has  been  quite 
different  since  you  entered  into  it. 

I  remember  nearly  all  the  words  you  have 
spoken  to  me,  and  they  will  keep  repeating  them- 
selves to  me  when  you  are  gone.  It  will  be  like 
having  you  near  me  to  recall  them ;  for  I  shall 
thus  be  able  to  hold  in  mind  the  places  and  the 
days  where  we  were  together,  and  when  you  told 
me  what  was  in  your  heart. 

I  am  not  used  to  writing  my  own  thoughts,  and 
I  find  it  strange  and  awkward,  and  not  at  all  like 
talking  to  you,  and  I  hope  you  understand  what  I 
mean.  Besides,  dearest  Adolph,  I  might  pour  out 
my  soul  to  you,  and  tell  you  again  and  again  how 
I  love  you,  and  how  I  shall  think  of  you  always 
and  every  second  of  the  time ;  but  I  dare  not  give 
way  to  my  feelings  like  that ;  for  it  will  only  cause 
grief  and  make  your  parting  harder  for  both  of  us 
to  bear.  What  I  want  most  to  say,  I  cannot ;  and 
that  is  what  makes  this  letter  so  difficult  to  write. 
But  you  will  know,  will  you  not  ? 

In  the  unhappiest  days  that  I  have  ever  known  I 
felt  that  I  would  be  better  at  once,  if  I  could  only 
cry  ;  and  that  is  just  how  I  feel  now,  if  I  could  only 
tell  all  that  I  want  to,  I  would  be  better  at  once  ; 
but  for  some  reason  I  cannot.  I  know  that  you 
love  me,  and  that  you  were  sincere  and  honest  in 
all  that  you  told  me,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  would 
not  go  away  if  you  did  not  love  me  as  you  do,  and 


176  POOR  PEOPLE 

that  makes  me  love  you  still  more  and  makes  your 
parting  all  the  more  bitter.  I  might  write  to  you 
often  and  tell  you  just  how  I  regard  you,  but  it 
would  be  the  severest  punishment  in  the  world  to 
bare  my  soul  to  you  and  yet  be  aware  that  I  could 
never  see  you  again  or  have  you  for  my  own.  And 
if  I  force  myself  to  write  a  cold  and  matter-of-fact 
letter,  why  that  would  be  as  depressing  for  you  to 
read  as  for  me  to  write  ;  so  it  may  be  wisest  and 
best  to  hope  on  in  silence.  How  do  you  feel  about 
that,  dearest? 

After  all,  it  is  no  more  than  right  that  I  do  just 
what  you  think  is  right,  and  what  I  know,  down  in 
the  depths  of  my  heart,  look  at  it  as  I  may,  is  right 
and  most  noble.  Otherwise,  if  I  listened  to  my- 
self in  my  mad  moments,  I  might  be  tempted  to  — 
oh,  I  could  n't  be  strong  enough  to  give  you  up. 
No,  I  am  sure  that  I  could  n't.  And  if  it  is  just 
that  we  should  have  each  other,  and  if  God  means 
that  we  are  to  have  each  other,  I  am  certain  that 
we  shall. 

Adolph  dear,  don't  think  that  I  ever  blamed  you, 
or  found  fault  with  you,  or  loved  you  less  on  ac- 
count of  your  fault ;  for  God  knows  and  father 
knows  and  mother,  I  have  told  them  so  often,  that 
I  should  be  happy  to  help  you  bear  all  the  misery 
and  wretchedness  it  causes  you.  You  will  always 
know  that  I  am  praying  and  wishing  and  hoping 
for  you.  You  will  win  success  and  be  famous  some 
day,  I  have  never  doubted  that ;  and  then  you  will 
see  how  much  all  this  suffering  has  helped  you,  and 
how  much  better  it  has  made  you.  I  shall  always 


LAST  WORDS  177 

be  proud  of  you  and  take  pleasure  in  your  success, 
just  as  much  as  if  I  had  won  it  myself ;  for  it 
would  be  the  same  thing  as  winning  it  myself. 

And  there  is  so  much  to  say,  and  so  much  that  I 
want  to  say  and  that  perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  but  I 
leave  it  unsaid  —  I  think  it  best  so.  I  have  been 
trying  to  write  good-by  down,  but  I  can't ;  so  will 
say  good-night,  and  I  am  sure  that  before  long  the 
time  will  come  when  I  shall  say  good-morning. 
And  if  I  did  n't  believe  that,  I  could  n't  live. 

IDA. 

It  could  not  have  been  an  hour  after  my  de- 
parture from  Adolph  that  Herr  Vogel,  by  no  means 
woeful  beyond  expression,  left  a  missive  from  his 
son  to  Ida  in  my  keeping.  I  found  her,  half  con- 
cealed behind  the  chintz  curtain,  gazing  through 
the  front  window 'at  an  express  wagon  which  had 
drawn  up  closely  to  the  curb.  A  trunk,  bound 
with  roping,  was  lifted  on  the  vehicle.  Adolph  and 
his  father  took  seats  beside  the  driver.  The  former 
turned  slowly  and  sadly  to  look  up  at  the  window. 
Seeing  no  one,  he  faced  forward  again.  I  could 
read  dejection  traced  on  the  lines  of  his  shrugged 
shoulders  and  stooping  back. 

I  was  standing  just  behind  my  daughter.  I 
could  hear  the  throb  of  her  longing,  aching  heart. 
Quickly  the  wagon  drove  beyond  the  range  of  our 
vision.  Totally  oblivious  to  my  presence,  Ida 
turned  from  the  window ;  I  enfolded  her  in  my  out- 
stretched arms.  Her  eyes  fastened  on  mine  with 
an  expression  of  infinite  entreaty  and  beseeching, 


178  POOR  PEOPLE 

as  if  I  were  a  magician  whose  beck  and  nod  had 
the  potency  to  recall  him.  Needles  ran  through 
my  heart ;  I  riveted  my  eyes  on  the  carpet.  Will- 
ingly would  I  remain  dumb  for  the  rest  of  my  life 
if  I  might  speak  the  one  right  word  of  comfort 
now! 

Her  small  hands  grow  like  ice  to  my  burning 
palms ;  and  she  half  sobs,  half  pants :  "  He  did  n't 
even  —  come  —  to  bid  me  —  good-by !  " 

"  You  know,  Ida,"  said  I  soothingly,  "that  you 
forbade  that  —  you  suggested  that  it  might  be 
better  if  he  did  n't." 

"He  might  have  come,  anyway,"  she  moaned. 
A  dropping  tear  wets  her  eyelash ;  her  hand  grows 
warmer. 

In  my  perturbation  I  had  forgotten  the  letter 
consigned  to  me.  "  He  did  come  to  say  good-by, 
Ida." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  call  me  ?  Where  was  I  ?  " 
she  groaned. 

"  Hiding  behind  the  curtain." 

"  You  might "  — 

I  waved  the  letter  aloft ;  comprehending,  she 
fairly  snatched  it  from  me.  She  ran  into  her 
room  with  the  boon  and  locked  the  door.  Late 
that  night  she  leaned  over  my  shoulder  and  read 
again :  — 

DEAREST  IDA,  —  Your  letter  was  so  simple  and 
frank  and  genuine  (just  such  a  letter  as  I  should 
expect  from  you  and  from  no  one  else  but  you) 
that  I  felt  it  was  too  beautiful  to  be  forgotten ;  so  I 


LAST  WORDS  179 

have  memorized  it  word  for  word,  as  one  does  a 
poein  that  one  wishes  to  have  with  one  always. 
An  accident  might  happen  to  the  paper,  and  all 
would  be  lost ;  but  now,  even  if  the  letter  should 
be  burned,  the  words  are  mine  forever.  And  be- 
sides being  simple  and  frank  and  genuine,  dearest 
Ida,  it  was  sensible,  and  I  know  better  than  any 
one  (save  you)  how  hard  it  is  to  govern  one's  self 
by  reason  at  such  a  time  as  this. 

How  proud  of  you  I  am,  and  how  thankful  and 
happy  to  have  had  the  qualities  which  won  the 
love  of  a  woman  like  you  !  I  think  ever  so  much 
more  of  myself  now,  and  I  respect  myself  ever  so 
much  more.  And  you  and  your  love  have  awak- 
ened in  me  a  standard,  an  ideal,  by  which  I  shall 
always  strive  to  shape  my  life.  I  shall  live  every 
day,  and  every  hour  of  each  day,  and  every  minute 
of  each  hour,  as  if  it  were  all  a  preparation  for  the 
consummation  of  our  loves.  Even  if  I  should  grow 
despondent  and  discouraged,  and  regard  this  idea 
as  visionary,  vain,  and  idle,  still  will  I  try  to  rule 
myself  by  it ;  for  the  fact. that  you  have  loved  me 
will  ever  inspire  me  to  keep  those  good  qualities 
alive  which  you  thought  to  find  in  me. 

Yes,  I  understand  what  you  wished  to  say  and 
could  not  say.  I  read  between  the  lines,  and  I 
heard  your  beating  heart ;  and  the  letter  is  thrice 
dear  for  the  bravery  and  restraint  that  dictated  its 
womanly  sentiment.  I  know,  too,  that  you  will 
read  mine  in  that  same  spirit  with  which  I  read 
yours.  But  I  run  on  and  on,  and  I  say  nothing ; 
and  there  is  so  much  to  be  said  that  I  am  con- 


180  POOR  PEOPLE 

fused  by  the  tumult  of  my  thoughts,  and  I  am 
afraid  that  when  the  last  words  are  penned,  I  shall 
have  forgotten  the  very  things  I  wished  most  to 
write.  Brave,  tender,  dear  little  soul,  you  are 
quite  right  —  it  is  best  not  to  correspond ;  although 
I  feel  even  now  that  the  temptation  will  come  to 
us  more  than  once,  and  that  we  shall  have  to 
struggle  to  resist  it. 

Forget  you  ?  Does  one  struck  blind  forget  the 
miracle  and  wonder  and  infinite  pleasure  of  sight  ? 
If  one  is  born  blind,  one  knows  but  by  hearsay 
how  divine  a  gift  is  sight ;  had  I  never  known  you 
or  cared  for  you,  had  you  not  become  a  part  of  my 
life  —  and  the  very  best  part  —  I  should  have  no 
means  of  knowing  the  difference  between  existing 
without  you  and  living  near  you.  You  meant  so 
much  to  me ;  you  wrought  such  a  change  in  me. 
It  is  as  if  I  had  been  sitting  in  a  dark  room  all  my 
life,  and  suddenly  you  came  into  the  darkness  bear- 
ing a  lighted  lamp,  and  then  I  saw  the  things  that 
I  had  but  dimly  descried.  Now  you  have  gone, 
and  the  lamp  is  out ;  and  I  sit  in  the  darkness 
again,  praying  that  you  will  come  back  to  me 
again.  And  the  message  you  left  —  the  kind,  en- 
dearing, loving,  soul-inspiring  words  you  spoke  — 
will  remain  with  me  forever,  dear  light  of  my  life. 

Nearly  every  traveler  that  passes  through  this 
world  is  given  the  three  priceless  gems  of  faith, 
hope,  and  love  before  he  reaches  the  milestone 
which  marks  the  beginning  of  the  second  quarter 
of  his  journey.  Here  knowledge  demands  that  the 
traveler  pay  the  jewel  of  faith  for  toll  before  he 


LAST  WORDS  181 

enters  its  realms.  He  hesitates.  The  running 
waters  and  the  green  pastures  and  the  shade  of  the 
tree-sheltered  nooks  shimmer  before  his  tired  eyes, 
promising  rest  to  his  weary  soul  and  drink  to  his 
feverish  thirst.  He  gives  the  jewel  of  faith  to 
knowledge.  When  he  halts  at  the  milestone  which 
marks  the  third  quarter  of  his  journey,  fatigued 
unto  death  and  parched  unto  burning,  —  for  water 
and  shade,  he  soon  discovered,  were  but  the  illu- 
sive mirage  of  his  cheated  fancy,  —  he  finds  know- 
ledge awaiting  him  again  to  extort  the  jewel  of 
hope.  This  toll  the  traveler  pays  without  waver- 
ing and  without  considering,  because  life  has 
taught  him  that  the  jewel  of  hope  loses  half  of  its 
value  when  the  jewel  of  faith  is  gone.  Cozzened 
out  of  faith,  robbed  of  hope,  he  cries  out  in  despair, 
and  throwing  himself  by  the  wayside,  he  refuses 
to  move  farther.  Then  life  whispers  to  him :  '  Be- 
hold the  jewel  of  love,  be  of  good  cheer  and  go 
bravely  on  thy  way  until  the  end.'  And  the  trav- 
eler looks,  and  lo!  the  jewel  of  love  is  thrice 
brilliant  since  the  other  two  jewels  have  been  lost. 
He  has  learned  its  true  value  now. 

Dear  heart,  you  understand  my  poor,  flimsy 
parable,  do  you  not  ?  Though  faith  and  hope  are 
gone,  love  clings  to  me  still,  and  it  is  greater  than 
these ;  for  it  comprises  them  both.  I  live  for  you, 
I  struggle  for  you.  If  I  fall,  it  will  be  with  your 
name  on  my  lips.  Heaven  bless  you  and  tend 
you  and  care  for  you ;  may  your  guardian  angel 
never  let  his  vigilance  rest  —  may  he  be  as  jealous 
of  your  welfare  and  happiness  as 

ADOLPH. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
VOGEL'S  COUKTSHIP 

THE  last  chapter  anticipated  things  somewhat. 
Before  Adolph's  departure  several  incidents  of 
importance  to  the  tenement  happened.  Ann  mar- 
ried the  shoemaker,  Jan  Zwiefka;  and,  if  that 
climax  can  be  capped,  Vogel  married  the  fortune- 
teller. I  spoke  with  greater  wisdom  than  I  knew 
when  I  said  that  accident  is  the  surest  matrimonial 
agent  in  the  world,  and  that  one  marriage  often 
leads  to  another. 

Jan  won  Ann's  love  with  a  potato.  He  pre- 
scribed that  she  carry  a  raw  potato  in  her  dress 
as  a  cure  for  the  rheumatism  from  which  she  had 
suffered  so  much  and  so  long.  The  vegetable  evi- 
dently affected  her  imagination,  for  she  no  longer 
complains  of  the  dread  evil.  The  bulb  has  turned 
black  and  hard ;  Jan  claims  that  the  rheumatism 
has  been  absorbed  by  it.  This  is  the  first  time 
that  I  have  heard  of  a  rheumatic  potato.  In  my 
passion  for  medicine  I  must  not  forget  my  inter- 
est in  love. 

Ann  payed  Jan  frequent  visits  to  let  him  know 
how  she  progressed,  and  Jan  called  on  Ann  with 
equal  assiduity  to  convince  himself  that  he  pro- 
gressed with  her  progression.  When  Ann  joy- 


VOGEL'S  COURTSHIP  183 

fully  announced  that  she  was  completely  recov- 
ered, Jan  complained  that  he  had  never  been  so 
ill.  He  was  suffering  from  the  pangs  of  love  un- 
requited ;  Ann  was  the  only  doctor  who  could  cure 
him.  One  good  turn  deserves  another :  Ann  cured 
Jan. 

The  shoemaker  has  refused  to  stick  to  his  last. 
He  is  devoting  himself  exclusively  to  the  practice 
of  medicine.  In  one  sense,  at  least,  marriage  has 
had  an  elevating  influence  on  Jan  —  he  has  moved 
from  the  basement  up  to  Ann's  rooms  on  the  sec- 
ond. From  the  street  you  can  see  the  large  sign, 
"Dr.  Jan  Zwiefka,  Faith  Healer."  The  health 
authorities  cannot  interfere  with  any  man  who 
cures  by  faith.  Jan  discovered  this  before  he 
pinned  his  faith  to  the  business.  He  bears  vis- 
ible signs  of  prosperity  —  he  wears  a  white  shirt 
every  day,  and  his  hair  and  beard  are  always 
neatly  combed  and  trimmed. 

The  neighborhood  is  thickly  plastered  with  his 
advertisements.  He  who  runs  must  read.  His 
circulars  are  unique ;  they  are  the  one  new  thing 
under  the  sun. 

Dr.  Jan  Zwiefka 

The  Polish  Wizard! 

The  last  descendant  of  the  first  Polish  King ! 

The  long  lost  art  of  curing  revealed  to  him 

IN  A  DREAM! 

He  cures  without  medicines.     Try  his  remedies. 
Sickness  is  only  an  exhalation.     He  catches  it. 
Look  out  for  quacks.     Consult  the  Wizard ! 
Health  is  easy.     First  visit  free. 


184  POOR  PEOPLE 

I  conclude  that  his  practice  is  growing  from  the 
fact  that  in  nearly  every  house  that  I  enter,  either 
a  lemon  or  an  onion  or  a  potato  occupies  the  coign 
of  vantage.  I  fear  that  an  increase  of  his  popu- 
larity will  mean  a  decrease  of  his  patients,  in  more 
senses  than  one. 

Vogel's  courtship  was  more  romantic.  I  have 
an  inkling,  however,  that  the  fortune-teller  suc- 
cumbed to  her  fit  of  jealous  rage  against  Ann 
rather  than  to  the  fascination  exerted  over  her 
by  the  Herr.  I  believe,  too,  that  the  example  set 
by  the  doctor  encouraged  Vogel ;  if  a  shoemaker 
could  win  a  bride,  why  could  not  a  cabinet-maker  ? 
Vogel  never  doubted  his  irresistibility  for  a  second. 
He  labored  under  the  delusion  that  the  madame 
was  affluent,  or  that  she  could  easily  win  fortune. 

When  he  heard  of  Jan's  engagement,  he  imme- 
diately invested  in  a  rose.  Surely  he  could  risk  a 
rose  to  gain  a  garden.  He  curled  the  stem  of  the 
flower  in  the  crown  of  his  hat,  and  betook  himself 
to  his  fair  lady  with  a  heart  that  was  anything  but 
faint. 

The  black  cats  were  playing  about  the  fringe  of 
the  madame' s  skirts,  the  parrot  was  cursing  or 
praying  in  Dutch  (Vogel  knew  not  which),  and 
the  madame  was  sewing.  It  was  a  scene  of  domes- 
tic felicitude  to  delight  the  lone  widower. 

He  removed  his  hat,  carefully  holding  the 
crown  downwards,  and  perched  himself  on  one 
foot.  He  felt  uncomfortable ;  he  was  unable  to 
rub  his  hands ;  his  volubility  failed  him.  There 
is  no  rose  without  its  thorns. 


VOGEL'S  COURTSHIP  185 

"  You  vas  "  —  Ah,  it  was  no  use ;  he  must  rid 
himself  of  the  rose  first. 

"I  have  you  dis  rose  bought,  a  token  mein 
esteem  von.  Vould  de  madame,  de  qveen  von 
de  fortune-tellers,  accept  him?  I  vould  like  to 
bring  you  a  garden  von  roses  mit  (you  vill  send 
de  cats  avay,  eh?),  den  vould  you  be  de  grand 
rose  in  de  garden,  und  de  oder  roses  vould  bow 
der  heads." 

Vogel  paused;  he  could  not  recall  the  rest  of 
the  speech  that  he  had  prepared.  The  madame 
smiled  encouragingly.  He  twisted  his  hands.  The 
lost  speech  mounted  to  his  lips. 

"  I  hav  you  a  rose  von  vood  carved  made.  De 
rose  vill  die,  but  de  vood  rose  he  vill  not  die.  He 
vill  be  mit  you  forever,  like  mein  dought.  De 
rose  nature  von,  he  vill  die  like  de  dought  vich  I 
for  oder  vimens  hav,"  he  ended  snickeringly. 

The  madame  held  the  rose  to  the  broad  nostrils 
of  her  flat  nose.  Whether  he  came  to  borrow,  or 
to  pay  reverence,  or  to  tempt  fortune,  it  was  all 
equally  sweet  to  her. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  mean  all  this, 
Herr  Vogel?" 

"  Ef  I  mean  him  ?  Vy  you  ask  ?  "  His  ardor 
cooled,  he  looked  disgusted.  The  madame  half 
repented.  She  said,  rather  meekly,  with  a  shy 
glance,  her  face  as  much  sub  rosa  as  the  rose  would 
permit :  — 

"  Somebody  told  me  that  I  resembled  a  smoky 
chimney  when  I  sit  in  this  wrapper." 

"  Somebody  hav  said  dat  ?     Such  a  man  I  hav 


186  POOR  PEOPLE 

no  use  for.  He  should  be  vipped  ;  he  should  not 
be  allowed  your  company  in." 

"  But  it  was  you  who  said  it ;  you  know  that 
you  did,"  she  giggled. 

"  I  hav  said  it  ?  Vas  it  bossible  ?  Ach,  I  vas 
mem  mind  absent  von.  I  make  fun ;  I  like  some- 
times to  schoke." 

He  sat  down,  and  moved  the  chair  nearer  to 
hers  ;  she  did  not  draw  back. 

"  I  hav  mein  shadow  in  de  schurch  seen,  but  I 
did  not  die." 

"  No,  I  thought  it  would  be  too  bad  to  have  a 
man  like  you  die ;  so  I  changed  your  fortune." 

"  But  I  never  vill  again  in  a  schurch  go." 

"  Not  even  with  me  ?  " 

Vogel  scrutinized  her,  flared  red,  and  darted 
from  the  room ;  the  proposal  was  too  abrupt ; 
there  must  be  something  wrong  with  a  woman 
that  would  have  him  that  readily. 

The  next  visit  he  came  armed  with  two  roses. 
The  madame  received  his  advances  coldly.  Vogel 
sued  amorously  ;  his  fervor  waxing  as  her  passion 
waned.  Three  roses  signaled  his  third  approach. 
The  madame  could  not  resist  the  steady  onslaught 
and  the  deadliness  of  the  weapons.  She  consented 
to  be  his. 

"  You  vill  scharm  de  cards,  und  ve  vill  be  rich," 
he  suggested  immediately  after  his  proposal,  "  und 
I  vill  not  vork,  eh  ?  You  vill  at  home  sit  und 
scharm  de  cards,  und  I  go  out  vat  de  cards  say  to 
do?  Ach,  I  vas  happy  like  de  little  bee  in  de 
clover.  Ve  vill  hav  a  grand  palace  —  und  I  make 


VOGEL'S  COURTSHIP  187 

him  grand  carvings  mit.  In  every  room  der  vill 
a  grand  mantel  be,  und  ve  hav  de  ceilings  vood 
von,  und  I  carve  dem  de  face  von  you  mit." 

Pictures  quite  other  than  those  of  carved  man- 
tels and  palaces  and  likenesses  of  herself  in  wood 
filled  the  madame's  fancy ;  they  were  plain,  ordi- 
nary photographs  from  every-day  life;  and  the 
most  prominent  in  the  series  were  those  of  Vogel 
starting  to  work  early  each  morning  with  his  tools, 
and  returning  each  night  with  his  wages.  She 
knew  his  ability  as  a  carver,  and  she  meant  that  he 
should  carve  to  the  best  and  fullest  extent  of  his 
ability.  Meanwhile  she  let  him  indulge  his  visions 
to  the  top  of  his  bent.  She  was  tired  of  predict- 
ing fortunes  for  others ;  it  was  high  time  that  she 
should  enjoy  a  fortune  of  her  own. 

A  day  or  two  after  their  nuptials  she  changed 
her  fairy  wand  for  a  rod  of  iron  ;  and  she  wielded 
it  over  poor,  deluded  Vogel  with  the  strength  of 
an  Amazon.  She  aroused  him  from  a  sound  sleep 
with :  — 

"  Come,  it  is  time  to  get  to  work." 

"  To  vork !  I  should  to  vork  go  ven  I  have  a  for- 
tune-teller married?  I  dought  ven  I  you  hav 
married  dat  I  vould  not  hav  to  vork." 

"  I  thought  just  that  when  I  married  you;  come, 
get  to  work." 

"  You  vill  not  mein  fortune  tell  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  work.  Fortune  never  can  come  to 
those  who  don't  work,  that  is  the  funny  part  about 
it." 

"  Dat  you  should  hav  me  before  told." 

"  I  thought  you  knew  about  it." 


188  POOR  PEOPLE 

"Anybody  can  fortune  hav  if  he  vill  like  a 
slave  vork.  De  trick  vas  to  hav  fortune  vork  mit- 
out." 

He  collected  his  tools,  mumpering  and  wonder- 
ing if  he  had  good  grounds  for  a  divorce.  He 
returned  after  the  absence  of  half  an  hour.  It  was 
the  same  story  —  a  combination  of  evil  portents 
had  crossed  his  path.  The  madame  was  furious, 
but  restraining  her  temper,  she  remained  calm  to 
all  outward  appearances. 

"I  will  remove  the  bad  luck,"  she  said,  and 
straightway  fell  to  mumbling  incoherently  in  a 
language  that  neither  Vogel  nor  herself  nor  any- 
body else  could  understand. 

"There,  the  three  white  horses  cannot  harm 
you  ;  I  have  charmed  them.  Come,  now,  hurry, 
and  you  can  get  to  work  in  time  yet.  I  will  go 
the  whole  of  the  way  to  the  shop  with  you,  and 
then  they  will  surely  be  powerless." 

Vogel' s  small,  greenish  eyes  were  ablaze  with  an 
indignation  that  was  far  from  righteous. 

"  You  mean  me  to  tell  dat  you  can  scharm  dree 
vite  horses  at  vonce  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  can  charm  a  dozen ;  it 's  on  the 
same  principle  as  charming  one." 

"  Excuse  me  ven  I  don't "  — 

"  What,"  she  interrupted,  "  do  you  dare  to 
doubt  my  power? " 

She  frowned  so  threateningly  that  he  did  not 
dare  to  dare  that  he  doubted. 

"If  you  do,"  she  went  on,  arising  in  austere 
dignity,  "  I  will  put  the  seventh  curse  of  the  sev- 
enth daughter  on  you." 


VOGEL'S  COURTSHIP  189 

"Vat  vas  dat,  de  seventh  curse  de  seventh 
daughter  von  ?  " 

"  You  wish  to  see  it  ?  Well,  you  shall.  If  you 
are  blinded  from  it,  don't  blame  me.  It  is  your 
wish ! "  She  stalked  over  to  the  window,  and 
pulled  the  heavy  shade  down  with  a  jerk. 

"Not  now,  please,"  he  begged,  "you  vill  mit 
me  come  to  de  shop,  eh  ?  " 

Thus  the  madame's  method  has  cured  Vogel's 
madness.  He  has  become  an  exemplary  husband 
—  he  has  not  the  courage  to  be  otherwise.  Now 
and  then,  it  is  true,  he  forgets  his  cares  in  the 
cup ;  but  the  madame  raises  no  objection  so  long 
as  he  does  not  sink  all  of  his  work  and  most  of  his 
wages  in  the  same  place. 

This  tyranny  has  grown  irksome  beyond  endur- 
ance to  Vogel's  artistic  temperament ;  it  murders 
all  individuality,  all  expression  of  self.  Twice  has 
he  confided  to  Malachy  that  when  the  right  oppor- 
tunity presents  itself  he  will  run  away  —  the  most 
expedient  and  least  scandalous  method  of  securing 
a  divorce,  he  claims.  The  madame  has  suspected 
this  intention  (Vogel's  tongue  will  be  his  hangman 
yet),  and  she  has  nipped  it  in  the  bud  of  its  in- 
ception. Tearfully  Vogel  has  bewailed  to  Malachy 
that  his  wife  has  the  power  to  see  him  through 
unlimited  space,  to  summon  him  back  by  the  re- 
petition of  an  incantation,  though  he  be  separated 
from  her  by  the  measureless  seas.  Vogel  warns 
the  whole  world  to  beware  of  women  endowed  with 
the  gift  of  making  home  attractive  from  too  great 
a  distance. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"THOMAS  WILSON,  Teacher  of  Instrumental 
Music,"  is  the  sign  that  now  hangs  from  my  door. 
Thus  far  I  have  secured  two  pupils.  Malachy  was 
the  first  to  respond ;  he  brought  his  daughter  Nora 
to  me,  asseverating  that  she  was  a  genius  in  the 
music  line.  He  predicted  a  brilliant  future  for 
her  as  a  pianist.  When  I  declared  that  it  was 
impossible  to  divine  her  musical  talent  from  the 
shape  of  her  ears,  he  became  glum  at  once,  and 
seemed  to  regret  that  he  had  not  sought  an  abler 
instructor.  With  perseverance  she  may  learn  to 
play  the  simplest  airs  without  the  making  of  ear- 
splitting  mistakes ;  but  I  have  my  doubts. 

My  second  pupil  is  one  by  the  name  of  Cronen- 
feld.  He  is  a  barber  by  trade,  brimful  of  senti- 
mentality, and  violently  in  love.  He  is  ambitious 
to  master  the  flute.  He  has  been  told  that  the 
tender  passion  of  woman  is  peculiarly  susceptible 
to  the  ravishing  notes  of  that  instrument.  He  has 
a  modicum  of  aptitude  for  music,  and  a  minimum, 
approaching  nil,  of  patience.  Cronenfeld  is  cursed 
by  the  idea  that  one  should  be  proficient  in  the 
flute  in  six  or  eight  lessons  —  six  if  one  is  a  good 
pupil ;  eight  if  one  is  not  born  for  the  art. 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  191 

"It  is  quite  true,"  said  I,  "that  they  should, 
but  then  they  can't." 

"  Well,  then,"  replies  he,  "  the  teachers  are  no 
good!" 

He  is  in  my  debt  for  four  lessons.  I  asked  him, 
last  time,  very  meekly,  if  he  could  not  let  me  have 
one  of  the  two  dollars  which  he  owed  me.  "  Cer- 
tainly," answered  he,  "  as  soon  as  I  find  out 
whether  or  not  I  have  learned  anything." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Cronenfeld,"  replied  I,  "  I  am 
not  responsible  for  your  progress ;  all  that  I  can 
do  is  to  teach  to  the  best  of  my  experience  and 
knowledge,  the  rest  depends  upon  you.  If  you 
advance,  or  if  you  don't  advance  —  in  either  case 
I  give  you  my  time." 

"  Yes,"  retorts  he,  "  but  if  I  buy  an  article  at 
the  store  and  it  don't  suit,  I  can  get  my  money 
back.  It  ought  to  be  the  same  with  a  music  les- 
son ;  if  they  are  no  good,  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  pay  for  them." 

"It  ought  to  be,"  rejoined  I,  "but  then  it  isn't, 
and  I  must  insist  upon  having  my  money." 

At  this  he  grew  angry.  When  he  regained  his 
serenity  of  temper,  he  inquired  if  I  could  not  wait 
until  he  discovered  how  his  fair  one  danced  to  his 
music.  I  refused.  Finally  he  besought  me  to 
take  a  part  of  my  pay  in  trade.  I  shook  my  head. 
Begrudgingly  he  handed  me  fifty  cents.  I  shall 
give  him  up ;  he  is  too  argumentative  for  a  pupil. 

Mother  and  Ida  implore  me  to  continue.  In 
a  short  time,  they  opine,  I  shall  have  a  clientele 
beyond  anything  ever  known.  I  agree  with  them. 


192  POOR  PEOPLE 

Such  odd  things  as  the  people  hereabouts  come  to 
be  taught :  one  wishes  to  learn  the  mouth  organ, 
another  the  jew's-harp ;  a  third  the  accordion. 
"  But  your  sign  reads  instrumental  music,"  is 
their  invariable  response  to  my  positive  refusal. 

If  I  were  willing  to  accept  my  fee  in  kind,  I 
might  find  patronage  that  would  allow  no  leisure  ; 
but  I  am  ever  offered  articles  for  which  I  can  find 
no  use  in  this  world  nor  in  the  next,  if  the  latter 
be  as  unutilitarian  as  I  have  imagined  it. 

It  is  of  no  avail,  I  cannot  make  my  livelihood 
out  of  music.  I  must  seek  another  field,  and  yet 
what?  This  ceaseless  strain  and  trial  that  give 
me  no  pause  will  drive  me  mad.  And  the  worst 
worry  of  all  is  the  worry  of  appearing  not  to  be 
worried,  not  to  let  mother  or  Ida  suspect  my  de- 
jection and  despair.  Mathilda's  savings  are  dis- 
appearing with  the  rapidity  of  water  down  hill. 
A  bank  account  is  like  a  paper  bag ;  prick  it  with 
a  pin,  and  it  goes  to  pieces  with  a  bang.  I  wish 
sometimes  that  I  were  a  savage,  then  I  might  go 
on  the  street  without  being  ashamed  of  having  no 
clothes  fit  to  wear. 

Jane  is  the  court  of  last  resort,  but  how  I  detest 
making  the  appeal.  Her  visits  have  gradually  be- 
come less  and  less  frequent.  Mother's  calls  upon 
her  and  mine  have  found  welcome  in  the  same 
gradually  decreasing  proportion.  It  is  not  what 
she  says  but  what  she  does  not  say  that  pains  us. 
A  week  ago  we  left  there  feeling  decidedly  uncom- 
fortable :  our  daughter  did  not  see  fit  to  introduce 
us  to  her  fashionable  friends.  Yet  she  has  volun- 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  193 

tarily  made  us  several  no  inconsiderable  gifts  of 
money  (I  hardly  know  what  would  have  become 
of  us  had  she  not);  but  the  lucre  has  always 
burned  my  hand  like  so  much  live  coal.  It  is  n't 
assistance  we  need,  mother  and  I,  half  so  much  as 
sympathy.  I  am  well  aware  that  at  bottom  Rounds 
is  entirely  to  blame.  He  greets  us  as  if  we  were 
two  stowaways  that  had  no  business  on  his  ship : 
there  is  plenty  of  room  in  the  surrounding  ocean 
for  such  as  we.  Jane  has  told  me  (kindly  and 
delicately,  let  me  make  haste  to  add)  that  Mr. 
Eounds  does  n't  like  relatives ;  not  us  in  particu- 
lar, but  relatives  in  general.  He  has  parents  in 
the  East  to  whom  he  sends  money  regularly  to 
keep  them  where  they  are.  He  is  ashamed  of  his 
humble  origin.  He  will  never  forgive  his  veins 
for  not  flowing  with  blue  blood. 

"Jane,"  asked  I  bluntly,  the  last  time  that  I 
was  there,  "  are  n't  you  ashamed  of  your  parents?  " 

She  stammered,  she  blushed,  she  bent  her  gaze 
on  the  floor. 

"  Come  back  into  the  dining-room,  dad,"  she 
whispered  hoarsely.  She  shut  both  doors  and 
turned  the  keys,  and  throwing  her  arms  around 
me,  she  began  to  cry  like  a  child,  kissing  me  with 
the  affection  and  the  sincerity  of  the  days  of  yore, 
before  the  artificial  had  crushed  the  natural  out  of 
her  life. 

"  Dad,  dad,  I  'm  not  happy  here  ;  I  'm  not  at  all 
happy  here.  But  I  Ve  started  it,  and  there  is  no 
turning  back.  They  will  laugh  at  me  if  I  do,  and 
besides  I  can't.  How  often  I  have  wished  myself 


194  POOR  PEOPLE 

back  in  the  tenement  and  the  store !  They  jeer 
behind  my  back,  I  can  feel  it ;  even  the  servants. 
If  I  could  only  go  back  to  where  you  don't  have 
to  care  for  what  you  are,  or  who  your  parents  are, 
or  for  anything  or  anybody!  Forgive  me,  dad 
dear,  forgive  me." 

My  mind  runs  backward  swiftly  and  jumps  for- 
ward with  a  spring ;  in  the  run  and  the  jump  I 
comprehend  all ;  for  the  moment  I  pity  Jane  and 
her  sorrow  more  than  Ida  and  hers.  I  cry,  too. 

"  I  did  want  to  introduce  you,  and  I  love  you, 
and  I  am  proud  of  my  dear  old  dad ;  but  that 
Mrs.  Murdock  is  always  and  forever  talking  about 
one's  family  in  such  a  snobbish,  insinuating  way, 
just  as  if  we  did  n't  know  that  her  mother  kept  a 
grocery  shop  at  one  time.  And  she  is  such  a  gos- 
sip !  Oh,  dad,  these  people  are  so  different  from 
the  folks  over  at  the  tenement ;  you  don't  under- 
stand, you  don't  understand  !  " 

"  I  understand  now,  Jane  dear,  I  understand. 
And  I  do  look  shabby  and  unpresentable,  I  know 
that  I  do.  It 's  all  right.  I  should  n't  have  said 
a  word  about  it." 

"  It 's  my  fault  if  you  do  look  shabby.  I  have 
been  a  greedy,  selfish,  negligent  girl.  But  it  is  n't 
all  my  fault ;  my  husband  is  good  to  me  in  lots  of 
things ;  he  is  very  free  and  liberal  with  his  money 
in  many  ways,  and  very  close  and  calculating  in 
others.  He  always  finds  out  when  I  have  been 
over  to  the  tenement,  and  he  scolds  frightfully 
about  it.  He  says  that  it  is  no  wonder  that  the 
money  g-o-e-s." 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  195 

Yes,  blood  is  thicker  than  water.  Our  daugh- 
ter may  go  clad  in  silks  and  we  may  slouch  about 
in  rags,  but  she  is  our  daughter  still ;  the  rest  is 
but  a  question  of  cloth  and  clothes. 

The  doorbell  rang;  a  second  afterwards  the 
butler  tapped.  That  butler  is  a  crawling  serpent, 
with  the  head  of  the  devil. 

"  I  will  have  to  go  now,  dad,"  said  Jane,  com- 
posing herself  with  a  celerity  that  I  should  have 
thought  impossible  anywhere  off  the  stage ;  "  it 's 
one  of  the  fashionables.  That 's  the  way  it  goes 
here  from  morning  until  night.  But  just  wait,  and 
things  will  shape  themselves,  and  it  will  turn  out 
all  right  in  the  end." 

I  shamble  from  the  house  far  happier  than  when 
I  crept  thither ;  although  his  satanic  and  serpen- 
tine majesty,  the  butler,  I  have  no  doubt,  was 
grinning  and  crawling  behind  my  back. 

Jibing  the  heels  of  Jane's  repentance,  a  new 
suit  came  to  the  house  for  me  and  a  new  dress  for 
mother.  We  found  money  in  the  pockets  —  just 
as  in  the  fairy  tales  —  save  that  the  money  was 
actually  there. 

Our  prodigal  daughter  has  favored  us  with  her 
presence  more  regularly  of  late ;  and  her  conver- 
sation is  less  restricted  to  her  own  doings  and  her 
neighbors'  sayings  and  more  concerned  with  our 
narrow  family  interests.  On  the  whole  the  out- 
look is  brighter  and  better  than  it  has  been  for  a 
long  while.  Mother  laughed  to-night.  This  may 
be  a  very  insignificant  fact  to  chronicle  ;  but  it  is 
the  first  time  that  I  have  heard  Mathilda  laugh 


196  POOR  PEOPLE 

since  Jane's  wedding,  when  we  danced  together. 
Even  Ida  smiled  to  see  her  laugh  ;  and  that  is  the 
first  time  that  she  has  been  in  a  laughing  mood  since 
Adolph  went  away. 

Ida  is  my  chief  anxiety,  the  consuming  worry 
that  harrows  the  night  of  my  life  with  woe  inex- 
pressible. A  pebble  is  pressing  in  her  throat,  and 
a  stone  is  weighing  in  her  heart,  but  she  neither 
moans  nor  complains.  She  lives  on  for  mother's 
sake  and  mine ;  her  interests  in  life  are  negative. 
To  sit  here  and  watch  the  torturing  strangulation 
day  after  day,  to  be  impotent  to  ease  or  aid  —  may 
you  never  endure  agony  like  it. 

I  reproach  myself  again  and  again.  It  might 
have  been  better  to  have  given  her  to  him,  trust- 
ing in  God  for  good  results.  I  may  have  acted 
wisely  but  not  too  well.  I  must  admit  that  there 
is  a  selfish  and  secret  pleasure  in  this  remorse. 
Empty!  Empty!  Empty! 

"Mother,"  asked  I  late  one  night,  when  the 
lights  were  out,  "  has  Ida  ever  spoken  to  you  about 
Adolph?" 

"  Never,  Thomas." 

"  Have  you  ever  spoken  to  Ida  about  Adolph  ?  " 

"  Yes,  once ;  but  she  turned  her  face  away  as 
if  she  had  been  struck  on  the  cheek,  then  she 
looked  at  me  in  silence  as  if  begging  me  to  never 
mention  his  name  again." 

Mother  has  aged  perceptibly  ;  her  hair  is  white 
as  the  paper  on  which  I  write.  Her  sight  is  dim ; 
she  has  ceased  reading  herself,  and  asks  me  to 
read  aloud  to  her.  She  does  not  hear  well ;  she 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  197 

no  longer  recognizes  me  by  my  step.  She  is  fast 
growing  absent-minded ;  her  tenacious  memory  is 
failing.  I  find  myself  no  longer  measuring  life  by 
years,  but  by  months.  The  hour  is  fast  drawing 
nigh  when  each  second  shall  have  its  value. 

When  mother  went  to  market  to-day,  Ida  and  I 
had  a  serious  talk. 

"  Ida,"  I  opened  the  conversation,  "  mother  is 
getting  very  old ;  I  fear  she  has  not  many  more 
years  to  spend  with  us.  I  long  to  have  her 
pass  her  last  days  in  comfort,  amid  every  luxury 
that  money  can  buy.  I  think  that  Jane  should  be 
willing  —  she  ought  to  be  rejoiced  to  have  mother 
make  her  home  with  her.  Hounds  may  not  like 
it,  but" - 

"  But,"  interrupts  Ida,  "  Jane  ought  not  to  care 
whether  Rounds  likes  it  or  not ;  it  is  her  own 
mother  who  has  done  so  much  and  sacrificed  so 
much  for  her  all  these  years ;  many  times  she  has 
deprived  herself  that  Jane  might  have ;  and  now 
she  should  be  perfectly  willing  to  put  up  with  a 
little  unpleasantness  for  her  sake ;  and  that  is  all 
it  will  amount  to,  a  little  unpleasantness." 

"  I  fear  Rounds  is  very  severe  with  her  at 
times." 

"  Even  so,  father,  she  should  suffer  anything  for 
mother's  sake." 

"  I  shall  speak  to  Jane  about  it  at  once.  I  have 
intended  to  do  it  for  a  month  past.  I  will  put  it 
off  no  longer ;  I  will  do  it  to-day." 

"  Father,  don't  you  ever  think  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  What  makes  you  ask  that  ?  " 


198  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  Are  n't  you  deserving  of  a  good  home,  too  ?  " 

"  This  is  a  fine  home ;  no  man  could  want  a 
better  home.  I  am  fortunate  in  having  such  a 
good  home  and  such  a  daughter  as  my  Ida." 

She  grew  wistful.  "  Mother  will  never  consent 
to  go  alone  ;  she  will  never  in  the  wide  world  leave 
without  you." 

"  But  we  can't  leave  you ;  one  of  us  must  stay 
here." 

She  held  peace  for  a  minute  before  she  re- 
marked :  — 

"  It  would  be  better,  father,  if  you  went  with 
mother.  I  can  give  you  so  very  little ;  much  less 
than  one  of  your  age  needs.  We  haven't  had 
butter  on  the  table  for  weeks ;  and  we  rarely  have 
meat  now.  The  strain  on  me  —  I  don't  like  to 
complain  —  has  been  too  great ;  I  am  not  sure 
whether  I  can  hold  out  this  way  much  longer.  If 
I  am  alone,  I  will  not  have  to  work  one  third  as 
hard." 

A  stitch  of  pain  draws  the  walls  of  my  heart 
together. 

"Oh,  Ida,  forgive  me;  I  have  been  a  selfish, 
weak,  old  man.  I  never  thought  of  you,  not  once  ; 
just  of  myself  and  my  own  comfort.  If  I  had  been 
a  man,  I  would  have  gone  to  the  poorhouse  rather 
than  have  you  toil  as  you  have  been  toiling." 

She  dropped  her  work  on  the  floor,  and  perched 
herself  on  my  knee,  twining  her  arms  about  me  as 
she  has  not  done,  for  some  reason,  since  Adolph 
left. 

She  starts  to  speak,  but  lapses  into  quiet,  then 
she  says :  — 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  199 

"  You  are  n't  selfish,  not  one  bit ;  you  are  the 
best  and  kindest  old  man  that  ever  lived,  or  that 
will  ever  live ;  there  has  never  been  one  like  you, 
and  there  never  will  be  one  like  you.  I  shan't 
have  you  reproach  yourself  !  I  wish  that  I  had 
as  many  hands  as  fingers,  that  I  might  use  them  all 
for  you  and  mother ;  but  I  have  only  one  pair,  and 
they  are  getting  slower,  I  fear." 

At  this  point  mother  returned  from  the  market, 
and  the  exchange  of  confidences  ceased.  To  in- 
terrupt some  conversations  is  like  breaking  a  gos- 
samer thread  that  nature  spins  —  not  all  the  king's 
horses  nor  all  the  king's  men  can  put  the  thread 
together  again. 

I  expected  Jane  this  afternoon,  but  she  did  not 
come.  Towards  evening  I  betook  myself  to  her 
house  ;  for  I  wished  to  put  my  resolution  into  exe- 
cution, being  an  old  man  and  vacillating,  before  it 
lost  vitality  from  being  held  in  abeyance  too  long. 

I  found  Jane  flurried ;  turbulent  as  a  waterpool ; 
her  thought  foaming  and  bubbling  in  every  direc- 
tion. Rounds  has  sold  his  house  and  lot  to  advan- 
tage—  he  never  sells  anything  to  disadvantage. 
The  world  is  his  bargain.  He  has  already  pur- 
chased a  more  pretentious  house  in  a  more  select 
neighborhood.  Jane  confided  how  many  thousand 
dollars  it  cost,  —  she  extended  the  confidence  three 
times  running,  in  fact,  —  but  the  thousands  were 
so  many  that  they  have  escaped  my  memory.  So- 
ciety holds  Jane  spellbound,  as  a  snake  is  said  (I 
don't  believe  it  myself)  to  fascinate  a  bird  by  fix- 
ing its  reptilian  eyes  upon  the  helpless  victim. 


200  POOR  PEOPLE 

When  the  agitation  of  the  whirlpool  subsided, 
I  launched  forth  boldly  with  my  purpose.  I  con- 
cluded my  plea  with :  — 

"  I  am  more  than  contented  myself ;  it 's  only  a 
better  home  for  mother  that  I  care  about." 

"Why,  mother  was  here  yesterday  and  said 
exactly  the  same  thing  about  you !  "  exclaimed 
she. 

"  Can  it  be  true  !  "  I  cried. 

Only  to  think  that  my  own  wife  could  deceive 
me  thus  basely ! 

I  hastened  to  impart  the  conversation  that  had 
passed  between  Ida  and  myself,  stating  how  un- 
justified I  was  to  lean  upon  one  so  overladen  for 
support. 

"  It 's  a  very  painful  position  to  be  in,  Jane,  to 
come  to  one's  own  daughter  and  ask  for  food  and 
shelter  and  raiment ;  but  Ida,  —  oh,  I  can't  let  Ida 
drudge  her  life  away  to  provide  a  home  for  me. 
It 's  criminal !  " 

Jane's  better  nature  asserted  itself  at  once ;  it 
always  does  in  a  crisis,  lying  dormant  when  the 
level  of  circumstance  is  smooth.  No  daughter  of 
ours  could  be  narrow  hearted.  We  are  not  re- 
sponsible for  the  meretricious  veneering  —  that  is 
the  work  of  the  world. 

Jane  declared  that  she  would  find  a  place,  and 
a  good  place,  for  mother  and  me  in  her  new  home, 
or  else  she  would  not  move  into  it.  '  No  matter 
what  her  husband's  views,  she  would  have  her  own 
way. 

"  And  if  he  won't,"  she  affirmed,  "  he  will  have 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD  201 

to  seek  another  wife,  without  a  mother  and  father, 
that 's  all." 

Late  to-night,  after  we  retired,  I  said  to  mo- 
ther :  — 

"  I  went  to  see  Jane." 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  down-town  ?  " 

"  I  changed  my  mind.  To  be  frank,  Mathilda, 
I  went  to  see  her  about  giving  you  a  home." 

"  Thomas,  you  did  n't ! " 

"  Yes,  I  did." 

"You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  do  it 
without  asking  my  permission  in  the  first  place. 
Don't  you  ever  think  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  Jane  told  me  that  you  were  there  a  day  ago 
to  beg  a  home  for  me.  Are  n't  you  ashamed  of 
yourself  not  to  have  asked  my  permission  in  the 
first  place  ?  Don't  you  ever  think  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  That 's  different ;  that 's  an  old  woman's  pre- 
rogative." 

"  Am  I  not  old  enough  to  have  a  prerogative  or 
two,  Mathilda?" 

"Yes,  but"  — 

There  is  no  argument  strong  enough  to  oppose 
to  one  of  mother's  "  buts."  When  she  says  "  but," 
I  know  that  the  Supreme  Court  has  handed  down 
its  decision. 

"  Your  going  to  see  Jane  about  me  and  my  go- 
ing to  see  Jane  about  you  has  ended  in  the  result 
that  we  are  going  there  together  to  live  for  the 
rest  of  our  lives." 

"  And  leave  Ida  here  alone  ?  Not  much  !  One 
of  us  must  stay.  I  will  never  give  my  consent  to 


202  POOR  PEOPLE 

deserting  Ida.  Thomas,  a  daughter  always  needs 
her  mother  more.  Besides,  I  am  strong  and  well ; 
I  don't  need  comfort  and  care  half  so  much  as  you 
do.  Now  if  you  "  — 

"  But  we  must  go,  Mathilda ;  neither  of  us  can 
stay  here.  We  have  no  choice.  Ida  informed  me 
to-day  that  she  could  stand  the  strain  no  longer. 
She  fears  that  the  excessive  work  will  undermine 
her  health.  I  have  been  under  the  impression  all 
the  while  that  it  has  been  Adolph." 

A  low  groan  bursts  from  mother's  lips;  she 
strives  in  vain  to  suppress  it.  Clearer  and  more 
expressive  than  all  the  words  in  the  dictionary,  it 
said,  "  Ida  does  n't  want  us  either ;  Ida  does  n't 
want  us  either." 

"  Thomas,  hold  my  hand."  (I  had  been  hold- 
ing it.) 

"Yes,  mother." 

"  You  are  there  ?     I  am  not  dreaming  ?  " 

"  No,  mother." 

"  We  have  not  much  farther  to  walk  up  the  road, 
not  very  long  now." 

"No,  mother." 

"  We  will  travel  it  together,  bravely,  until  the 
end." 

"  Yes,  mother." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    NEW    HOME 

MAGNIFICENT,  opulent,  gorgeous,  lavish,  are  the 
adjectives  which  are  associated  in  my  mind  with 
the  conception  of  our  new  home.  They  have 
painted  the  lily  every  color  of  the  rainbow,  streaks 
of  gold  predominating.  They  have  adorned  the 
peacock's  tail  with  the  plumage  of  the  parrot. 
To  have  passed  at  a  bound,  without  transition,  from 
our  hovel  to  this  palace  gives  one  the  impression 
that  a  magician  was  busy  behind  the  scenes,  and 
that  an  angry  shake  of  his  wand  will  crumble  this 
splendor  to  dust.  I  am  in  constant  dread  lest  the 
whole  come  tumbling  down  over  our  heads  like  a 
house  of  cards  in  a  zephyr. 

Mother  is  entrancing  in  her  black  gown,  her 
folded  kerchief,  and  her  white  cap ;  while  I  pre- 
sent an  eminently  respectable  appearance  in  my 
black  suit.  Surely  we  should  satisfy  Kounds's 
craving  for  ancestors  ;  mother  and  I  are  ancestral 
enough  to  have  glided  in  from  five  or  six  genera- 
tions back. 

Our  apartment  is  located  just  off  the  landing 
of  the  second  flight  of  stairs.  It  is  precisely  the 
place  for  old  people,  quiet  and  secluded.  Here 
hang  the  crayons  of  my  son-in-law's  family.  He 


204  POOR  PEOPLE 

would  have  consigned  their  likenesses  to  the  fire 
without  a  prick  of  conscience  had  not  superstition 
restrained  him  ;  so  he  compromised  by  hanging 
them  on  our  walls  —  a  disposition  that  is  next  best 
to  burning.  I  have  grown  accustomed  to  the 
sordid,  vulgar  countenances,  and  they  disturb  my 
dreams  but  rarely  now.  Several  pieces  of  decrepit 
furniture  whet  my  curiosity.  I  marvel  how  they 
came  in  here.  They  must  have  stolen  a  march  by 
the  back  door,  like  the  butcher  and  the  grocer.  I 
am  glad  the  horsehair  lounge  escaped  detection; 
it  detracts  so  little  from  our  comfort.  We  boast 
of  two  landscapes,  the  original  of  which  were  never 
on  sea  or  land. 

Since  our  arrival  the  weather  has  been  bleak, 
blustering,  and  wild,  the  leonine  half  of  March  be- 
ing rampant.  Storm,  rain,  and  hail  have  thwarted 
our  resolves  to  visit  Ida ;  we  have  not  the  hardi- 
hood to  venture  out  of  doors.  Nevertheless,  we 
manage  to  write  to  her  at  least  once  a  day,  the 
contents  of  each  communication  declaiming  our 
ecstasy  with  the  new  order  and  the  life  luxurious, 
lamenting  that  her  absence  should  make  the  one 
rift  in  the  perfect  lute.  These  prevarications  bite 
deeper  and  deeper  in  the  flesh  of  truth ;  and  al- 
though mother  is  deluded  with  the  idea  that  she  is 
deceiving  me,  I  that  I  am  outwitting  her,  both  of 
us  that  we  are  drawing  white  wool  over  Ida's  eyes, 
the  verity  is,  as  we  shall  have  courage  to  confess 
by  and  by,  that  we  are  downright  miserable.  This 
is  not  home  ;  it  is  a  charitable  institution  !  I  pine 
away  for  Ida,  the  old  ways,  the  homely  surround- 


THE  NEW  HOME  205 

ings.  And  we  have  been  here  but  a  week.  When 
the  weeks  stretch  out  to  months,  and  the  months 
drag  along  wearily  to  years  !  — 

We  are  tolerated,  not  entertained.  Jane  may 
pretend  and  affirm  all  she  likes,  but  a  frown  from 
Mrs.  Grundy  annoys  her  more  than  all  our  smiles 
can  gratify.  Horrible  Mrs.  Grundy  —  she  should 
never  have  been  born ! 

If  guests  are  invited  for  the  evening,  mother 
and  I  are  relegated  to  the  second  table,  dining 
just  after  the  family  and  just  before  the  servants. 
Rounds  holds  that  children  should  be  seen  and  not 
heard ;  that  those  in  their  second  childhood  should 
be  neither  seen  nor  heard.  When  he  sees  me  pass- 
ing up  the  stairs,  he  stares  at  me  with  an  air  that 
snaps,  "  That 's  right,  go  on  up ;  that 's  where  you 
belong." 

He  is  fond  of  discussing  questions  of  econo- 
mics, loud  enough  to  be  overheard,  that  are  suffi- 
ciently wide  in  range  to  include  us ;  such  as,  Why 
young  men  should  save  for  the  exigencies  of  old 
age,  Why  charity  tends  to  pauperization  and  crime. 
Not  once  since  we  have  been  his  dependents  has 
he  inquired  after  mother's  health  or  mine.  He 
takes  it  for  granted  that  our  health  is  necessarily 
good,  being  poor  and  having  naught  else ;  or  he 
does  n't  care  a  straw  one  way  or  the  other.  I  am 
inclined  to  foster  the  latter  belief.  Nevertheless, 
he  might  put  the  question  to  assume  a  politeness 
which  he  has  not. 

He  shocked  me  with  a  friendly  greeting  this 
morning.  No,  he  did  n't  mistake  me  for  the  butler. 


206  POOR  PEOPLE 

That  dignitary  would  have  scorned  the  condescen- 
sion. Hounds  is  afraid  of  the  butler ;  he  has  been 
with  the  best  families,  and  has  an  eye  that  is  un- 
erring for  etiquette.  He  shakes  his  head  supercil- 
iously when  mother  and  I  are  at  table.  He  pre- 
sumes on  a  finer  familiarity  with  knife  and  fork. 

"  Mitchell,"  queried  I,  the  other  day  at  break- 
fast, "  did  you  ever  work  for  an  undertaker  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  he  answered ;  "  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  You  always  seem  to  me  to  be  in  deadly  fear  of 
waking  a  corpse." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  replied. 

Adolph's  mask  was  never  so  ironical  as  Mitch- 
ell's. 

Jane  holds  the  first  of  her  series  of  receptions 
this  afternoon.  The  carpet  is  laid  across  the  side- 
walk, the  awning  is  erected ;  a  colored  man  of 
lofty  proportions  stands  ready  to  deliver  the  guests 
as  they  dismount  from  their  carriages.  The  lion 
rampant  has  ceded  place  to  the  lamb  recumbent ; 
mother  and  I  shall  catch  the  lamb  by  the  fore- 
lock, avoid  the  din  and  confusion  of  the  house,  and 
call  on  Ida. 

We  were  wending  our  way  through  the  hall,  heed- 
ful not  to  brush  against  the  palms  and  the  clusters 
of  roses  (I  was  sorely  tempted  to  steal  the  most 
gorgeous  one  for  Ida),  when  Jane's  voice  floated 
over  the  banister.  She  besought  us  to  return,  if  we 
were  going  out,  before  the  company  arrived,  un- 
less we  cared  to  attend  the  reception  and  meet  her 
friends.  Her  tones  implied  that  a  negative  reply 
to  the  last  suggestion  would  not  be  unacceptable. 


THE  NEW  HOME  207 

Perplexed,  we  slunk  back  to  our  den,  bitterly 
regretting  that  we  Lad  not  carried  out  our  inten- 
tion. "We  might  have  stayed  with  Ida  overnight. 
We  sat  in  silence.  Mother  begged  me  to  play  a 
cheerful  and  lively  air  to  drive  away  the  depressing 
gloom  of  her  lowering  spirits.  It  was  a  ruse,  I  am 
sure,  to  divert  my  attention  from  the  study  of  her 
countenance.  I  took  my  flute  from  the  case  (its 
notes  have  never  echoed  through  this  house),  and  I 
began  the  favorite  aria  of  my  opera.  I  was  fairly 
in  the  middle  of  it  when  the  butler  poked  his  smug 
face  through  the  door.  "  Please,  sir,  Mr.  Rounds 
sent  me  up  to  ask  if  you  would  n't  be  kind  enough 
to  stop  that  infernal  racket." 

I  dropped  the  flute  on  the  floor.  "  Are  those 
your  words  or  Mr.  Eounds's  ?  "  My  blood  ebbed 
scarlet. 

"  I  always  deliver  messages  as  they  are  dictated, 
sir." 

Opening  the  door,  I  walked  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs  and  glanced  down.  My  son-in-law  stood 
leaning  against  the  high  post  of  the  broad  landing 
of  the  first  floor. 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  I  heard  him  ask. 

"  He  asked  me  if  that  was  what  you  said,  or  if 
they  were  my  words,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Paupers  !  "  he  sneered.  "  They  will  command 
us  to  send  messages  to  them  on  a  silver  plate 
next." 

The  babble  of  voices  and  the  rustle  of  gowns 
became  louder  and  louder.  The  noise  subsided 
when  the  orchestra  began  its  entertainment.  I 


208  POOR  PEOPLE 

left  the  door  open  that  we  might  enjoy  the  rap- 
turous music ;  it  was  an  air  from  the  Russian 
composer  Moszkowski  which  I  had  never  heard 
performed,  although  I  have  played  it  myself  fre- 
quently. 

The  men's  wraps  were  laid  in  the  room  opposite 
ours.  Rounds  was  coming  up  the  stairs  with  one 
of  his  friends  ;  the  latter  peeped  in  our  room,  saw 
us,  and  smiled.  The  friend  sought  his  hat  and 
coat ;  Rounds  tiptoed  back  and  shut  the  door 
softly. 

44  Thomas,"  said  mother  firmly  and  composedly, 
44  if  we  are  not  fit  to  be  seen,  then  we  are  not  fit  to 
be  here." 

44  You  took  the  words  from  my  lips,  mother." 

Mrs.  Cummings,  the  housekeeper,  has  cultivated 
the  habit  of  coming  into  our  room  of  an  evening 
to  play  cards.  She  is  a  tall,  stately,  high-breasted 
woman,  with  a  nose  that  ruins  the  dignity  of  her 
carriage  —  it  has  the  exact  shape  of  a  thumb  with 
two  nostrils  bored  in  the  tip.  She  is  inquisitive, 
and  prides  herself  on  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
private  history  of  all  the  leading  families ;  and  she 
is  ever  ready  to  tell  what  I  imagine  the  leading 
families  have  expurgated  from  the  second  edition 
of  their  annals.  She  has  a  natural  proclivity  for 
discovering  skeletons  in  closets.  She  makes  this 
branch  of  sociology  her  specialty.  Every  closet 
has  a  skeleton  ;  if  it  has  n't,  put  one  there  —  is 
her  theory.  Her  evening  calls  on  us  are  in  the 
nature  of  tours  of  investigation  rather  than  card 
tournaments.  Her  methods  are  two,  the  direct 


THE  NEW  HOME  209 

and  the  indirect.  In  the  latter  she  takes  the  lead, 
becoming  confidential  about  other  people,  offering 
an  inducement  to  her  listeners  to  become  confiden- 
tial about  themselves. 

"  Now  there 's  the  Barker  family,  quite  a  comme 
il  faut  family,  I  assure  you.  Do  you  speak 
French,  Mr.  Wilson?" 

I  acknowledge  my  deficiency.  French  is  the 
language  of  the  court,  and  I  am  not  a  courtier. 

"  Well,  comme  ilfaut  is  the  French  for  '  just  as 
it  ought  to  be ; '  there  is  nothing  in  English  that 
conveys  exactly  that  meaning." 

"  Does  n't '  just  as  it  ought  to  be '  express  it  ?  " 
I  ask. 

"  Not  quite  ;  very  nearly,  but  not  quite.  French 
is  such  a  refined  language.  Where  was  I?  Oh, 
yes,  I  was  saying  that  the  Barkers  are  a  comme  il 
faut  family :  evidently  so  affectionate  and  fond  of 
one  another.  They  always  appear  that  way  when 
they  are  out  together.  But  you  should  see  them  at 
home  ;  there  is  nothing  comme  ilfaut  about  their 
home  life.  They  don't  speak  to  each  other  there. 
She  retains  her  side  of  the  house  and  he  keeps  to 
his.  It  is  just  the  same  as  a  divorce,  only  it  has 
n't  the  sanction  of  the  court.  It  prevents  scandal, 
but  it  does  n't  stop  talk.  There  can  be  ever  so 
much  talk  without  any  scandal.  Scandal  is  only 
when  it  is  printed  in  the  newspapers,  Mr.  Wil- 
son." 

She  is  a  discriminator  in  the  use  of  similes, 
this  Mrs.  Cummings. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  that  about  the  Barkers, 
Mr.  Wilson?" 


210  POOR  PEOPLE 

I  assure  her,  with  a  becoming  sense  of  modesty, 
that  I  am  not  a  close  student  of  modern  history. 

"  The  Weavers  are  another  comme  ilfaut  fam- 
ily —  a  very  old  family  and  highly  cultured.  She 
used  to  be  a  Miss  Jefferson  of  Virginia,  a  direct 
descendant  of  Thomas  Jefferson,  she  claims,  al- 
though I  don't  believe  it.  She  is  seemingly  de- 
voted to  her  husband ;  they  were  the  fondest  couple 
that  was  here  this  afternoon,  to  all  appearances.  I 
venture  to  guess  that  she  called  him  '  my  dear ' 
and  '  dearest '  at  least  twenty  times  during  the 
reception.  But  take  them  apart,  and  the  comme, 
il  faut  part  flies  away  like  the  wind.  There 's  no 
affection  wasted  then.  It 's  —  well,  all  I  can  say 
is  that  her  name  is  often  mentioned  with  that  of 
the  handsome  Mr.  Collins,  who  inherited  a  fortune 
from  his  grandmother.  Mrs.  Weaver  is  a  strik- 
ing blonde  and  very  recherche,  the  French  for 
'select,'  you  know.  Mr.  Weaver  is  reported  to 
pay  marked  attention  to  a  widow  here,  a  stunning 
beauty.  She  could  n't  be  any  handsomer  if  she 
grew  on  a  bush.  Now,  mind  you,  I  don't  say  that  it 
is  so  ;  I  merely  say  that  it  is  rumored.  But  when 
a  thing  is  rumored  nowadays  you  may  be  sure 
that  it  is  so ;  people  are  so  careful  of  what  they 
say  behind  your  back.  Did  you  ever  know  that 
about  the  Weavers  ?  " 

I  admitted  that  this  revelation  about  the  Weav- 
ers threw  me  into  breathlessness. 

So  much  for  the  indirect  method ;  it  is  only 
effective  when  pursued  hotly  by  the  direct  method, 
which  is  like  this :  — 


THE  NEW  HOME  211 

"  I  have  heard  that  your  son-in-law  was  a  very 
excellent  carpenter  before  he  got  rich,  Mr.  Wil- 
son." 

"People  do  bring  that  fact  up  against  him, 
Mrs.  Cummings." 

"  Ah,  he  was  a  carpenter,  then  ? "  Her  gray 
eyes  expand  the  full  width  of  the  sockets. 

"I  never  saw  him  at  work,  so  I  can't  say," 
which  was  the  solemn  truth. 

"  He  made  his  fortune  with  great  rapidity,  did 
he  not?" 

"  With  far  greater  rapidity  than  I  made  mine." 

"  He  lived  in  the  same  house  with  you,  did  he 
not?" 

Is  this  woman  a  bureau  of  information,  or  a  de- 
tective at  large? 

"  When  he  paid  court  to  my  daughter,  he  was 
in  our  house  so  much  of  the  time  that  people  said 
he  lived  there.  But  you  know  better  than  I  what 
value  to  place  on  what  people  say." 

"  This  residence  is  somewhat  more  spacious  — 
more  au  grand,  as  the  French  say  —  than  your 
old  one,  is  it  not,  Mr.  Wilson  ?  " 

"My  wife"  — I  winked  at  Mathilda  —  " says 
that  she  prefers  the  comforts  and  accommodations 
of  our  old  house  to  those  of  this  one  in  many 
respects." 

"  Ah,  may  I  ask  in  what  respects  ?  I  am  so  in- 
terested in  the  construction  of  houses." 

"Was  your  husband  a  contractor?"  I  asked 
innocently. 

"  Indeed  not,  my  husband  was  a  lawyer ;  voila 


212  POOR  PEOPLE 

tout.  I  am  simply  interested  in  the  construction 
of  houses  from  the  standpoint  of  aesthetics." 

"  Our  home  would  have  interested  you  but  little 
from  that  point  of  view,"  answered  I. 

The  next  morning  the  servants  were  whisper- 
ing to  each  other  that  Rounds  was  a  bungling 
carpenter,  who  made  his  fortune  in  a  second  by 
a  stroke  of  luck  on  the  Board  of  Trade,  and  that 
he  lived  with  us  in  a  hovel  that  a  beggar  would 
despise.  Mrs.  Cummings  possesses  unusual  pow- 
ers of  deduction.  Give  her  a  premise  whereon  to 
start  and  she  will  upset  the  world. 

The  gossip  reached  Rounds  via  Mitchell,  I 
think ;  and  he  accused  me  of  demoralizing  his 
servants.  I  taught  them  how  to  malinger ;  I 
gambled  at  cards  with  them ;  I  ruined  the  estab- 
lished discipline  of  the  house.  Order  jumped  out 
of  the  window  when  I  entered  by  the  door.  I 
was  more  than  welcome  to  the  hospitality  of  his 
roof,  —  just  as  welcome  as  his  own  mother  and 
father,  —  but  if  I  wished  to  remain,  I  should  have 
to  mend  my  ways. 

Jane  was  present  when  he  reproved  me.  She 
did  not  interpose  at  the  moment,  but  when  he 
left  for  down-town  she  entreated  me  not  to  take 
his  scolding  to  heart.  It  was  only  his  way.  I  had 
reached  that  same  conclusion  unaided. 

I  kept  mother  in  ignorance  of  this  incident ; 
but  had  I  told  her  of  the  affair,  she  would  have 
heard  it  twice ;  for  Mrs.  Cummings  dropped  in 
to  speak  with  her.  Mrs.  Cummings's  visiting 
cards  —  cartes  de  visite  she  entitles  the  article  — 


THE  NEW  HOME  213 

should  be  trimmed  with  a  heavy  border  line  of 
black.  As  Vogel  says,  they  would  be  a  forewarn- 
ing. 

I  prophesied  fair  weather  and  balmy  for  to-day  ; 
but  no  man  is  a  weather  prophet  in  his  own  city. 
The  lion  swallowed  the  lamb,  and  he  is  rampant 
as  ever.  Even  were  it  the  balmiest  spring  day, 
mother  could  not  leave  the  house;  rheumatism  has 
confined  her  to  her  bed.  I  am  determined  to  go 
alone  ;  conscience  will  drive  me  mad  if  I  postpone 
my  duty  longer.  I  must  see  my  Ida. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE   RETURN 

IDA  vacated  the  flat  which  we  formerly  rented 
to  take  her  abode  in  the  two  rooms  erstwhile  oc- 
cupied by  the  Vogels.  I  poked  my  head  through 
the  door,  smiling  broadly  as  a  Jack-out-of-the-box. 
Jack  was  doomed  to  disappointment;  his  child  was 
not  at  hand  to  make  merry  over  his  antics.  Sulk- 
ily did  he  replace  his  smile  with  a  frown,  withdraw- 
ing into  the  box,  railing  at  an  ill-regulated  world. 

Ensconced  in  the  largest  chair,  I  finally  con- 
sented to  aid  the  efforts  of  philosophy  to  dull  the 
sharp  edge  of  discontent,  as  I  fell  to  speculating 
on  a  theory  of  human  happiness.  I  can  sum  up 
my  recondite  thought  in  a  line  —  Where  we  are 
matters  naught;  with  whom  we  are  is  all-impor- 
tant. Will  my  name  go  down  in  the  history  of 
philosophy  for  the  discovery  of  this  ethical  prin- 
ciple ? 

Again  am  I  at  ease  in  mine  own  inn,  comfort- 
able as  if  I  had  exchanged  a  new  and  tight-fitting 
coat  for  one  that  had  accommodated  itself  through 
use  to  the  contour  of  my  figure. 

Ida,  if  circumstances,  if  fate,  if  you  will  only 
allow  us  to  end  our  last  days  with  you,  I  will  ask 
for  nothing  more,  nothing  better. 


THE  RETURN  215 

On  Adolph's  work-bench,  which  still  stood  in 
its  same  corner,  lay  a  new  clay  pipe  and  a  paper 
of  tobacco ;  on  the  back  of  a  chair  hung  my  tat- 
tered smoking  jacket ;  from  underneath  the  seat 
stole  the  toes  of  my  worn  slippers.  I  donned  the 
jacket ;  I  discarded  my  heavy  shoes  for  the  slip- 
pers ;  I  filled  the  pipe  and  puffed  rounded  wreaths 
of  pure  delight.  How  futile  to  speculate  on  the 
conditions  of  happiness  !  Ida  will  brim  over  with 
delight  to  find  me  thus,  just  as  if  I  had  never  gone 
away. 

I  catch  the  sound  of  her  step.  Adolph's  heart 
must  have  vibrated  with  this  same  sad-sweet  music 
of  love,  commingled  of  nameless  fear,  bodiless 
anxiety,  and  inexpressible  longing,  when  he  lis- 
tened to  Ida  tripping  up  the  stairs.  If  it  did  n't 
—  but  it  did. 

A  start  backward,  a  shout  of  surprise,  a  bound 
forward,  and  she  comes  sailing  into  my  open  arms. 
Ida,  my  Ida !  We  cry  and  laugh,  and  laugh  and 
cry  together ;  but  laughter  ousts  tears  in  a  trice. 
Her  lips  begin  one  question  and,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  hurl  forth  another,  as  if  an  answer 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  joy  of  interrogating. 
Finally  we  become  normal. 

"  I  have  been  expecting  you  every  day ;  I  won- 
dered what  had  been  keeping  you  away  so  long. 
It  has  been  worrying  me  dreadfully.  Of  course  I 
got  your  letters.  But  then  your  letters  are  n't  you, 
are  they?" 

I  frame  my  excuse  as  best  I  can. 

"  If  you  had  n't  come  to-day,  I  should  have  sent 


216  POOR  PEOPLE 

for  you ;  I  made  up  my  mind  to  that  this  morn- 
ing. And  mother  is  sick  with  rheumatism,  you 
say  ?  And  it 's  not  serious  —  honestly  not  ?  " 

"  Not  a  particle  worse  than  ever.  She  will  grieve 
more  over  not  seeing  you  than  she  will  suffer  from 
all  the  rheumatism  in  the  world." 

Ida  lapses  into  her  pensiveness.  "I  will  go 
back  with  you  to  see  mother." 

"  That 's  a  dear."  I  speak  impulsively,  consid- 
ering the  sacrifice  of  pride  it  costs  Ida  to  enter 
Jane's  house.  Jane  has  neglected  Ida  shame- 
fully. 

"  And  you  are  happy,  father?  " 

"Don't  I  look  it?" 

"Yes,  but  that  may  be  because  you  are  here 
with  me." 

"  We  are  perfectly  contented  there,  Ida.  We 
have  everything  that  our  hearts  desire.  We  wish 
something  and  presto !  we  have  it.  One  follows 
the  other  as  quickly  as  a  bell  rings  when  we  push 
the  electric  button.  I  am  afraid  that  we  have 
misjudged  Bounds ;  he  treats  me  as  kindly  as 
if  I  were  his  own  father,  and  I  never  expected 
that." 

"  It  must  be  grand  to  live  in  a  house  like  that, 
father?" 

"  Grand  !  Why,  it 's  "  —  how  I  yearn  to  disclose 
my  eagerness  to  return  here  —  "  it 's  the  grandest 
thing  in  the  world,  Ida.  You  cannot  conceive  how 
grand  it  is  until  you  try  it  yourself." 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  like  the  change.  I 
could  afford  to  give  you  so  little." 


THE  RETURN  217 

An  eruption  in  the  bowl  of  my  pipe  —  a  volcano 
of  smoke.  The  truth  is  tempting  me  sorely. 

"  Have  you  missed  us  much,  Ida  ?  " 

She  cuts  short  the  exclamation  that  is  crossing 
her  lips  with :  — 

"  I  have  been  very  lonely  sometimes.  Yes, 
sometimes  I  have  been  lonely ;  but  then  I  have  to 
work  so  steadily  that  I  don't  get  much  time  to 
think.  If  I  could  only  have  you  back,  though ;  if 
I  could  afford  it,  I  "  - 

"Ah!" 

"  Father,  what  made  you  say  '  Ah  '  like  that  ?  " 

"  Did  I  say  '  Ah  '  ?  Well,  I  was  n't  conscious 
of  it.  No,  Ida  deary,  I  think  that  it  is  better  as 
it  is.  You  see  that  you  don't  have  to  toil  like 
a  slave  now ;  and  mother's  health  seems  so  much 
improved  in  the  new  home." 

"  I  was  sure  that  it  would  be." 

"  The  difference  in  heartache  more  than  makes 
up  for  it,"  reflect  I  to  myself.  And  aloud :  u  Of 
course  we  miss  you  fearfully,  but  one  can't  have 
everything  in  this  world ;  that  would  be  asking 
too  much." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  are  so  contented  with  Jane  ; 
I  was  positive  that  you  would  be  when  you  grew 
accustomed  to  the  different  style  of  living.  But, 
father,  honestly  now,  supposing  that  I  could  earn 
enough  to  care  for  you  and  mother,  that  is  if  Jane 
would  keep  on  assisting  us  a  bit  as  she  used  to, 
would  you  rather  come  back,  or  stay  where  you 
are?" 

My  eyes  fall  on  her  thumb,  worn  from  sewing. 


218  POOR  PEOPLE 

I  pretend  to  weigh  her  question  seriously.  Three 
long  whiffs  from  my  pipe. 

"  Well,  Ida,  taking  mother  into  consideration  — 
the  improvement  in  her  general  health  —  the  com- 
forts, and  the  luxuries,  I  presume  it  is  wiser  to 
remain  with  Jane." 

She  is  scrutinizing  me  sharply.  God  forgive 
me !  I  pray  that  I  spoke  that  lie  in  the  same  man- 
ner in  which  I  utter  the  truth. 

I  shift  the  subject  adroitly,  inquiring  after  the 
Vogels  and  Dr.  Jan  and  the  others. 

She  dismisses  them  with  a  word,  objecting  to 
the  obtrusion  of  a  tertium  quid  in  our  intimate 
conversation.  I  attempt  to  divert  her  attention 
away  from  the  main  road  down  one  of  the  byways 
of  discourse. 

"  Ida,  it  is  growing  late ;  if  you  want  to  see 
mother,  we  shall  have  to  start  at  once." 

"  Only  finish  one  more  pipe,  and  then  we  will 
go.  It  is  so  good  to  have  you  sitting  on  that  chair 
smoking  and  talking  to  me,  as  if  nothing  had 
changed,  as  if  you  had  never  gone  away." 

The  twilight  had  merged  into  the  darkness  when 
we  reached  Jane's  house.  Ida's  mouth  drooped 
plaintively  when  she  beheld  mother,  warning  me 
that  Mathilda  has  aged  since  we  moved  here ;  that 
some  lamentable  change,  which  eluded  my  obser- 
vation, has  wrought  its  pernicious  way  in  her. 
Even  their  greeting,  melancholy  with  the  sugges- 
tion of  an  immediate  departure,  of  a  lachrymose 
tearing  away  of  mother  from  daughter,  was  pa- 
thetic. Ida's  affected  buoyancy  of  spirits  fore- 


THE  RETURN  219 

boded  tragedy  to  my  gloomy  mood.  Unspeakably 
cruel  of  destiny  to  separate  those  whom  love 
unites ! 

Ida  took  mother's  hair  down,  combing  and 
dressing  it  in  the  old  fashion,  chatting  and  frolick- 
ing like  a  child  meanwhile.  Afterwards  we  sought 
amusement  in  cards.  All  thoughts  of  impending 
tragedy  sped  before  a  blithesomeness  that  I  have 
not  held  in  my  heart  since  boyhood. 

It  was  after  eleven  before  it  occurred  to  Ida  that 
she  must  leave  us.  Mathilda  was  bent  upon  trans- 
forming the  lounge  into  a  bed,  that  she  might  stay 
with  us  overnight ;  but  to  this  Ida  would  not  con- 
sent, nor  would  she  hearken  to  my  accompanying 
her  home.  She  was  not  afraid  to  go  alone ;  one 
of  my  years  had  no  business  out  in  such  weather. 

Despite  her  rheumatism  and  all  its  consequent 
aches  and  pains,  mother  insisted  upon  escorting 
her  daughter  to  the  hall  door  ;  and  she  would  give 
ear  to  neither  Ida's  protest  nor  mine.  I  had  my 
hand  on  the  bronze  knob,  when  I  heard  the  violent 
slam  of  the  carriage  door.  Rounds  and  Jane  were 
back  from  the  affair  at  the  club.  They  were  un- 
usually early.  Although  no  word  had  passed  be- 
tween us  on  the  subject,  I  divined  that  Ida  pre- 
ferred not  to  meet  them,  and  I  had  laid  my  fond 
plans  accordingly. 

All  was  not  well  with  Eounds.  His  face  quotes 
the  rise  and  fall  of  stocks  on  the  exchange.  He 
was  in  one  of  those  peevish,  irritable  moods  when 
a  glance  suffices  to  throw  his  tottering  temper 
out  of  balance,  to  let  the  brunt  of  it  fall  on  the 


220  POOR  PEOPLE 

unfortunate  one  who  has  tipped  the  wavering 
scales. 

Ida  in  the  plain  garb  of  a  girl  of  the  poor,  Jane 

v     in  the  richness  of  ball-room  attire,  a  diamond  tiara 

in  the  golden  crown  of  her  hair,  resplendent  in 

silk  gown  and  ermine  cloak  —  what  a  gulf  between 

the  two ! 

To  the  disgust  of  the  ermine,  no  doubt,  the  silk 
was  brought  in  a  dangerous  proximity  to  plebeian 
cotton  cloth ;  and  Jane's  arms  hugged  Ida  as  she 
planted  a  warm  kiss  on  both  of  her  sister's  cheeks. 
I  have  noted  that  Jane  is  ever  more  tender  when 
her  husband  has  one  of  his  morose  fits. 

"Dear  child,  why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me? 
Where  have  you  kept  yourself  in  hiding  so 
long?" 

"  I  have  been  home  —  so  busy,"  stammered 
Ida. 

Rounds  was  hanging  his  coat  and  hat  on  the 
large  tree  in  the  hall. 

"  Home  is  a  good  place  for  you,"  he  muttered 
without  turning. 

"  Will !  "  gasped  Jane,  clinging  closer  to  Ida, 
as  if  to  evince  that  her  husband's  sentiments  were 
not  shared  by  her.  Ida  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair,  and  biting  her  lip,  she  clinched  her  little 
fists.  I  grasped  mother's  hand ;  her  nerves  were 
all  a  tingle,  her  vitality  was  spurting  to  her  finger 
tips  ;  I  was  holding  a  live  wire. 

The  blood  swirled  to  my  head  and  beat  at  my 
temples.  I  remained  speechless,  the  words  refus- 
ing to  marshal  themselves  into  sentences  invective 


THE  RETURN  221 

enough  to  express  my  indignation.  In  my  mind 
was  a  confused  jumble  of  apologetic  phrases, 
poured  forth  by  Jane ;  but  I  can  remember  vividly 
that  Ida  kissed  mother  and  me,  and  glided  softly 
from  the  house. 

Jane  flitted  into  our  room  in  her  nightdress,  and 
remained  with  us  until  the  first  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing. She  was  sympathetic,  consoling,  and  gently 
persuasive,  although  she  was  harassed  by  a  sor- 
rowfulness and  depression  that  she  strove  to  sub- 
jugate in  vain.  I  recall  that  I  felt  embarrassed 
rather  than  relieved  by  her  presence,  and  that  I 
was  fretfully  awaiting  the  moment  when  I  should 
be  left  alone  with  mother.  It  was  apparent  that 
Mathilda's  desire  was  at  one  with  mine.  Yet  when 
Jane  took  her  leave,  at  last,  we  sat  with  clasped 
hands,  silent. 

It  was  only  when  fatigue,  not  somnolence,  in- 
duced us  to  seek  rest  in  bed,  and  when  our  room 
was  filled  with  the  darkness  of  the  night,  as  if  in 
dread  that  the  light  might  hear  our  secret,  that 
mother  whispered  :  — 

"  Thomas,  no  one  wants  us  here  —  nowhere  — 
there  is  only  one  place  —  one  home  left  —  the 
poorhouse.  They  take  it  for  granted  that  you 
are  poor  there;  they  do  not  insult  old  and  poor 
people  —  like  us." 

"Ida  will  take  us  back,  mother.  She  would 
rather  starve  than  have  us  inmates  of  the  poor- 
house.  She  will  not  allow  it.  It  will  kill  her  if 
we  go  there." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  she  wants  us,  Thomas  ?  " 


222  POOR  PEOPLE 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Why  —  why,  she  told  me  so  to-day."  Verity 
has  ceased  to  be  a  virtue  with  me. 

We  arose  early,  long  before  the  servants  were 
astir,  and  gathered  the  few  trifles  that  we  brought 
hither.  I  scribbled  a  hasty  line  or  two  to  Jane, 
regretting  that  mother  and  I  were  unable  to  accept 
her  hospitality  further.  Nervousness  toyed  with 
my  hand  as  the  storm  with  a  leaf,  and  I  could  not 
decipher  my  own  chirography.  My  thoughts  were 
as  difficult  to  concentrate  as  thistle-downs  in  a 
high  wind.  The  letter  might  give  the  impression 
of  curtness,  ungratefulness,  and  harshness.  I  tore 
it  into  shreds,  resolving  to  communicate  with  her 
at  length  when  calmness  and  serenity  should  favor 
composition. 

With  due  caution  we  stole  out  of  the  house.  I 
had  a  sensation  that  the  butler  was  crawling  be- 
hind us ;  I  did  not  look  back  to  confirm  it. 

Ida  had  barely  begun  the  cooking  of  her  frugal 
breakfast  when  we  loomed  up  before  her  vision. 
Had  the  frying-pan  been  small  enough,  she  would 
have  dropped  it  into  the  fire.  I  spoke  before  her 
query  dropped  from  her  lips. 

"  Ida,  we  have  come  home.  For  God's  sake 
take  us  back !  We  can't  stand  it  there.  We  will 
live  on  a  crust  of  bread  and  water,  if  you  will  let 
us  stay  with  you." 

"  Take  you  back !  Take  you  back  ?  Are  n't 
you  ashamed  to  ask  me  that  ?  I  could  cry  for  joy 
that  you  have  come  back.  I  should  grow  mad, 


THE  RETURN  223 

crazy,  out  of  my  head,  if  I  had  to  live  another 
month  without  you.  Mother,  father,  forgive  me," 
she  burst  into  tears,  "  I  lied  to  you,  I  drove  you 
away  because  I  thought  you  would  be  happier  with 
Jane.  I  lied  to  you !  Don't  shake  your  head, 
father  dear,  I  did  ;  yes,  I  did !  I  said  I  could  n't 
afford  to  have  you  with  me,  when  I  was  dying, 
sobbing  my  life  out,  to  see  you  leave  me." 

"  We  have  been  lying,  too,  Ida.  We  have  never 
been  so  unhappy.  We  did  n't  spend  a  contented 
moment  in  that  man's  house ;  but  we  could  n't 
bear  the  thought  of  burdening  you." 

"  Then  we  have  been  deceiving  each  other  all 
the  time?" 

"  Yes,"  echoed  mother  and  I  in  unison. 

"  Well,  we  shall  end  that  right  here.  Mother, 
put  on  your  apron ;  you  will  find  it  in  the  closet, 
hanging  on  the  nail  behind  the  door  ;  and  help  me 
get  breakfast.  I  am  going  to  run  over  to  the 
shop.  Father,  you  can  help,  let  me  see  —  you  can 
help  eat  it." 


CHAPTER  XXV 
POOR  PEOPLE 

OUR  brief  sojourn  in  the  palace  fades  in  retro- 
spect like  the  weird  dream  of  a  distant  night.  I 
must  strain  conception  to  believe  that  two  months 
have  flown  since  our  exodus  from  Jane's.  It  is 
the  very  Maytime  of  our  lives ;  the  snows  of  the 
long  winter  of  our  discontent  melt  before  the  cheer- 
ing sunshine.  Not  a  single  black  rubric  has  trailed 
its  fuliginous  mark  across  our  red-lettered  calen- 
dar. Day  has  rolled  after  day  as  smoothly  as  a 
rubber  ball  down  an  inclined  plane. 

An  unusual  incident,  which  I  hasten  to  record, 
fastens  the  morning  of  our  return  to  the  long  chain 
of  reminiscences  with  a  shining  link  of  pure  gold.  I 
was  unwrapping  my  few  valueless  effects,  prepara- 
tory to  putting  them  away,  when,  in  my  impatient 
haste,  I  jerked  the  newspaper  off  that  covered  my 
flute  case.  Laughing  at  my  unprecedented  haste, 
Ida  picked  the  torn  and  discarded  journal  up 
from  the  floor.  "  You  must  n't  be  so  extravagant 
with  the  papers  ;  they  are  good  for  starting  a  fire. 
This  is  an  Eastern  paper ;  I  '11  put  it  away  to  read 
by  and  by."  Folding  it,  her  eye  moved  down  the 
column  of  close  print  in  disinterested  contempla- 
tion. "  Look  at  this !  See  here  ! "  she  shrieked. 


POOR  PEOPLE  225 

"  At  what  ?  "  asked  I,  leaning  over  her  shoulder. 
"  Ida,  if  you  don't  hold  that  paper  steadier,  I  can't 
read." 

"  What  *s  the  excitement  about  ?  "  queried  mother. 
"  Do  you  find  yourself  the  heir  to  an  unclaimed 
estate?" 

"Kead  it  aloud,  father.  There  at  the  end  of 
the  column.  I  can't." 

With  one  bold,  broad  sweep  of  vision  I  took  in 
the  whole  column,  catching  the  names  "  Poor  Peo- 
ple "  and  "  Vogel,"  as  if  they  had  been  embossed 
in  heavy  letters.  I  floundered  on  as  best  I  could, 
pausing  at  every  period  to  recover  the  breath  of 
which  astonishment  robbed  me. 

"  To  criticise  '  Poor  People '  is  to  criticise  na- 
ture ;  both  have  faults  —  in  spots,  but  the  few  im- 
perfections are  well  hidden  by  an  overmastering 
beauty  of  outline  and  perfection  in  form.  Mr. 
Vogel  has  held  his  mirror  up  to  nature,  and  whilst 
the  glass  shone,  his  hand  was  steady  and  sure  and 
his  eyes  keenly  alive  to  every  shade  cast  by  sun- 
light and  fleeting  shadow.  If  here  and  there  the 
quicksilver  was  worn  and  as  a  result  the  reflection 
marred,  one  must  allow  that  the  difference  in  mir- 
rors is  but  the  difference  of  temperaments.  To  no 
two  is  life  the  same ;  the  reflecting  mirrors  of  our 
senses  are  constructed  that  way. 

"Sympathy,  sincerity,  and  simplicity  glow 
through  the  whole  play  like  sunshine  through  the 
summer  landscape;  bits  may  escape  the  warmth 
and  heat,  but  dapple  and  checker  lend  a  beauty 
of  their  own,  and  absence  of  contrast  is  not  far 


226  POOR  PEOPLE 

removed  from  cloying  monotony.  The  plot  is 
woven  of  airy  nothing,  intangible ;  doubly  charm- 
ing by  the  illusiveness  of  the  binding  threads.  The 
characters  move  with  ease  and  dignity  through 
the  invigorating  atmosphere,  unimpeded  by  heavy 
clouds  of  obfuscating  plot  and  counterplot. 

"Dialogue,  action,  situation,  and  business  are 
fresh  and  new,  bubbling  and  flowing  from  natural 
springs  of  native  wit,  quenching  the  thirst  of  an 
age  nauseated  by  the  stale  and  flat  —  although  by 
no  means  unprofitable  —  waters  of  French  inde- 
cencies, corked  in  dusty  and  salacious  bottles. 
'  Poor  People '  is  of  the  soil  American ;  its  inspira- 
tion wells  from  things  and  folks  here  at  home." 

The  critique  went  on  to  give  an  analysis  of  the 
play,  a  description  of  the  scenes,  and  to  pass  judg- 
ment on  the  merits  of  the  various  members  of  the 
cast ;  but  as  you  are  to  attend  a  performance  later 
on,  you  may  prefer  to  go  with  an  opinion  unbiased 
by  the  views  of  another. 

The  moment  that  I  could  retreat  from  the  bom- 
bardment of  exclamations  and  the  fusillade  of 
embraces,  I  ran  down  to  see  Herr  Yogel.  He  can- 
not read  English  himself,  and  he  received  what 
he  heard  with  a  barrel  of  salt.  When  his  wife's 
reading  corroborated  mine,  he  threw  the  salt  aside 
for  honey.  It  was  patent  enough  that  this  was  the 
first  news  that  he  had  had  of  the  play  and  his  son. 
He  became  wildly  enthusiastic.  "  How  could  de 
sohn  von  Vogel  de  grand  carver  run  von  greatness 
avay  ?  Yen  he  comes  here  de  play  mit,  I  shall  be 
der  a  box  in ;  und  de  papers  vill  hav  de  picture 


POOR  PEOPLE  227 

von  de  grand  carver  vitnessing  de  play  von  de 
great  poet  his  son.  I  hav  alvays  said  von  Adolph 
dat  dime  vould  tell." 

I  could  not  tear  myself  away ;  he  held  me  by 
the  coat.  He  repeated  the  same  remarks  over  and 
over  until  my  eardrums  cracked  from  the  tedium. 
His  anger  kicked  over  the  traces  of  restraint  when 
I  refused  to  present  him  with  the  article  that  sang 
the  glory  of  his  son.  The  paper  should  belong  to 
him,  he  argued,  since  Adolph  was  his  son  and  not 
mine.  He  commanded  his  wife  to  copy  the  column 
in  pen  and  ink ;  when  she  refused,  he  railed  and 
stormed,  averring  that  she  had  no  family  pride. 
I  managed  to  creep  out  of  this  household  jar. 

How  swift  the  time  flies !  Spring  has  passed 
swiftly  up  this  way,  summer  went  chasing  after, 
and  autumn  was  not  slow  to  follow.  It  is  now  the 
middle  of  September.  And  during  all  the  inter- 
vening days  not  a  word  further  concerning  Master 
Adolph. 

Ida  sings  and  hums  at  her  work.  Hope  springs  v' 
eternal,  and  how  the  world  changes  and  shifts  as 
it  springs  and  falls  and  falls  and  springs.  "  He 
will  come  back,"  she  repeats  with  never  failing 
cheer ;  "  he  has  conquered  the  world,  and  he  has 
gained  the  victory  over  himself.  It  may  all  be 
well  yet.  I  am  afraid  to  think  of  such  happiness." 

Often,  while  ostensibly  reading  or  writing,  I 
watch  the  transitory  gleams  of  expression  that 
cross  her  face.  The  smile  declares,  "  He  is  coming 
back ;  he  will  be  mine."  It  is  Dan  Cupid  gliding 
along  a  path  smoothed  with  rose  leaves.  The 


228  POOR  PEOPLE 

frown,  "  You  must  n't  allow  yourself  to  anticipate 
like  that ;  supposing  that  it  all  proves  an  empty 
dream  ?  "  And  Dan  Cupid  slips  and  falls  head 
over  heels,  only  to  get  up  and  try  it  again,  which 
is  a  trick  Dan  has. 

To-day  Herr  Vogel  floated  into  our  rooms ;  he 
scorns  to  tread  on  earth.  He  is  delirious  with 
the  frenzy  of  expectation.  It  was  some  minutes 
before  excitement  loosened  its  bit  on  his  garrulous 
tongue. 

"  De  play,  it  vill  here  de  next  veek  be.  Mein 
sohn  me  has  written.  Der  vas  dree  tickets  your 
family  for;  two  for  de  Dr.  Jan,  und  two  me,  und 
two  Malachy  for.  Adolph  should  me  a  box  have 
sent,  eh  ?  He  must  a  mistake  hav  made.  I  should 
be  in  a  box,  vas  it  not  ?  De  grand  carver  "  — 

Ida  bursts  into  a  hysterical  laugh,  and  cuts  his 
grandiloquence  short.  She  has  lost  self-control. 
The  wire  too  tightly  drawn  recoils  or  snaps. 

"  Will  your  son  come  on  with  his  play  ?  "  I  ask. 

Ida's  laughter  ceases  suddenly  as  it  began,  the 
life  of  her  five  senses  concentrating  in  the  nerves 
of  hearing  as  she  awaits  Herr  Vogel's  answer. 

"  He  writes  de  letter  in  ven  he  can,  den  he  vill, 
und  ven  he  cannot,  den  he  vill  not,"  and  with  that 
the  old  man  glides  from  the  room. 

And  this  week  —  was  there  ever  such  a  long 
short  week  in  the  history  of  eternity  ?  Now  time 
drags  like  a  sled  on  snowless  ground,  now  flies  like 
a  practiced  skater  on  flawless  ice.  Advertisements, 
newspaper  notices,  billboards,  and  posters  lower 
our  hearts  to  the  depths  of  impatience  with  a 


POOR  PEOPLE  229 

four-ply  cord ;  they  suffocate  our  yearning  as  they 
plaster  the  town. 

Ida  has  laid  her  work  aside ;  the  strain  of  doing 
without  achieving  has  made  her  frantic.  My  wife 
alone  remains  calm,  imperturbable,  and  smiling,  as 
if  reality  could  not  depart  a  hair's  breadth  from 
preconception. 

Vogel  delivered  a  letter  to  me  this  morning 
on  the  stairway.  The  address  was  in  Adolph's 
cramped  handwriting.  My  impulse  is  to  hasten 
to  read  it  aloud  to  Mathilda  and  Ida ;  on  delibera- 
tion, I  decide  to  first  acquaint  myself  with  the  con- 
tents. The  rick  of  good  news  is  heaped  too  high 
to  bear  the  laying  on  of  another  straw ;  bad  news 
would  be  like  the  application  of  a  match  to  the  in- 
flammable pile.  I  breathe  a  silent  prayer  before 
breaking  the  envelope.  The  opening  sentence  — 
the  last  —  I  drain  the  quintessence  at  a  draught. 
He  will  be  here  to  attend  the  initial  performance 
of  his  play,  although  he  is  frank  and  free  to  con- 
fess that  were  it  not  for  the  hope  of  seeing  Ida  he 
would  remain  in  the  East.  The  play  has  not  been 
a  success  financially ;  the  press  has  given  it  a  rous- 
ing welcome,  but  the  public  has  been  far  less  hos- 
pitable. He  has  lost  the  world,  but  he  has  gained 
the  victory  over  self  ;  and  weighed  in  the  balance, 
his  defeat  is  as  nothing  compared  to  his  victory. 
The  love  of  Ida  has  done  what  the  promise  to  his 
mother  could  not  do.  He  comes  back  to  sue  for 
her  hand.  He  pleads  with  me  not  to  refuse  him 
this  time ;  not  to  hurl  him  back  into  the  abyss  out 
of  which  he  has  dragged  himself. 


230  POOR  PEOPLE 

Thus  far  his  efforts  to  place  my  opera  have  been 
fruitless.  He  warns  me,  however,  not  to  let  dis- 
couragement make  my  heart  grow  sick,  since  he 
fosters  the  hope  of  landing  a  manager  on  the 
"  Enchanted  Island  "  some  day.  Upon  my  word 
and  honor,  the  "  Enchanted  Island "  escaped  my 
attention  until  this  moment,  sinking  into  dwindling 
insignificance  beside  the  altitudinous  mainland  of 
«  Poor  People." 

This  good  news  will  make  Ida's  doubting  heart 
beat  with  the  full  strength  of  faith.  I  dare  not 
take  the  responsibility  of  consigning  these  two 
brave  souls  to  lifelong  misery —  already  have  I 
caused  them  suffering  too  great. 

Time  has  two  dimensions.  Length  multiplied 
by  intensity  gives  the  true  sum  of  duration ;  but 
length  and  breadth  and  duration  and  intensity 
must  have  an  end  at  last  —  the  event  had  come ; 
the  night  for  seeing  the  first  performance  of  "  Poor 
People  "  was  here. 

Beset  by  the  dread  of  being  one  second  too  late, 
we  started  a  full  hour  too  early.  We  were  the 
first  inside  of  the  theatre.  It  was  all  so  cold  and 
dark  and  still  that  Ida  and  mother  gripped  my 
hands,  apprehensive  lest  the  stuff  of  their  dreams 
fade  and  not  leave  a  rack  behind.  At  any  rate, 
they  wished  to  make  sure  of  me. 

The  duration  of  our  perplexity  was  short. 
Vogel  and  his  wife,  magnificent  in  her  scarlet 
dress  ornamented  with  botanical  puzzles,  made 
their  entrance.  The  advent  of  the  pair  was  balm 
to  our  uneasiness ;  like  familiar  faces  appearing  in 


POOR  PEOPLE  231 

a  baseless  vision,  they  lent  an  air  of  reality  to  the 
occasion.  Vogel  seated  himself  with  much  ado, 
and  stood  forth  pompously  to  stare  around ;  catch- 
ing sight  of  us,  he  came  trotting  up  the  aisle  to 
ask  how  we  enjoyed  it.  "  Exceedingly,  so  far,"  I 
answered. 

Some  one  hallooed  from  the  balcony.  It  was  a 
signal  from  Malachy  to  advise  me  that  he  and  his 
wife  were  prominently  represented.  A  repetition 
of  the  alarm  announced  Dr.  Jan  Zwiefka  and  his 
wife. 

A  few  stragglers  strolled  in.  The  members  of 
the  orchestra  crawled  out  from  the  little  hole 
under  the  stage.  The  desultory  tuning  of  various 
instruments  sent  stray  notes  forth,  moaning  with 
deep  melancholy,  as  if  to  lament  their  lot  at  fall- 
ing in  the  dead  hollowness  of  an  empty  house. 

Gradually  the  spectators  assembled  by  ones  and 
twos  and  threes ;  as  if  by  magic  the  theatre  filled. 
The  lights  blazed  with  full  force ;  the  leader  took 
his  place  on  the  estrade,  waved  his  baton,  and 
then,  then  —  what  do  you  think  should  happen? 
Dream  on  dream,  I  shuddered ;  the  whole  would 
topple  with  a  crash !  They  were  playing  the  pre- 
lude to  my  opera !  I  should  have  doubted  my  own 
ear,  which  is  the  last  thing  any  musician  is  willing 
to  doubt,  but  at  that  instant  Ida  gave  vent  to  a 
low  cry  that  escaped  suppression.  Her  eye  had 
caught  the  line  at  the  bottom  of  the  programme  in 
fine  print,  "  Before  the  first  act  the  orchestra  will 
render  the  prelude  to  Mr.  Thomas  Wilson's  '  En- 
chanted Island.' "  The  prelude  was  encored,  and 


232  POOR  PEOPLE 

the  leader  bowed  and  scraped  as  if  the  compliment 
were  intended  for  him  instead  of  me.  My  left 
and  right  hands  were  squeezed  until  the  circula- 
tion of  my  blood  was  threatened. 

With  commanding  brows,  gazing  from  side  to 
side,  Vogel  paraded  up  the  aisle  to  us.  "  Vas  it 
not  a  grand  tree-um-ph!  All  dese  people,  silks 
und  satins  und  diamonds,  in  von  education  und  re- 
finement, hav  come  de  play  to  see  dat  mein  sohn 
hav  written ! "  The  curtain  arose ;  he  scudded 
back  to  his  seat ;  the  well-bred  audience  restrained 
its  inclination  to  laugh  and  smiled.  Just  then  I 
espied  Jane  and  Rounds  in  the  lower  box,  nearest 
to  the  stage  on  the  left ;  a  care-worn  look  has  fur- 
rowed its  way  across  his  hard  face,  usurping  the 
place  of  the  sang-froid  and  superciliousness  which 
were  wont  to  stand  forth  like  an  extra  feature. 
Things  have  not  gone  so  well  with  him  as  they 
might,  I  learn.  It  is  reported  that  a  vast  specula- 
tion is  on  the  eve  of  failure.  He  made  the  world 
his  bargain,  and  he  drove  too  hard  a  bargain. 
There  is  strict  legislation  against  usury  of  this 
kind ;  Rounds  broke  the  law,  and  he  must  pay 
back  the  interest  he  extorted,  with  interest  com- 
pounded on  the  principal  he  purloined. 

Act  One.  The  curtain  disclosed  the  tenement 
home  of  the  Moores,  straitened  down  to  the  barest 
necessities  of  existence.  The  old  machinist,  gray 
of  beard  and  hair,  is  trying  to  concentrate  his 
mind  on  the  model  of  a  rotary  engine  to  which  he 
has  devoted  the  long  thought  of  his  life.  The 
baying  of  the  black  wolf  on  the  threshold ;  remorse 


POOR  PEOPLE  233 

over  the  lost  situation ;  the  thwarted  attempts  to 
secure  employment,  enshroud  his  soul  in  mournful 
depression,  and  he  turns  from  his  work  in  despair. 
His  aged  wife  is  quick  to  comfort  him,  clever  to 
paint  the  future  roseate,  maugre  the  impossible 
paint  and  the  bad  brush  which  the  present  offers 
for  the  coloring.  Darby  and  Joan,  this  pair ;  two 
withered  roses,  falling  away  petal  by  petal,  cling- 
ing to  the  bush,  breasting  storm  and  rain  solely 
that  the  one  may  have  the  other's  companionship. 

A  lockout  has  deprived  Moore's  three  stal- 
wart sons  of  their  positions ;  but,  nevertheless, 
they  come  to  the  cheer  of  their  father  with  all 
the  buoyancy  and  hopefulness  of  youth,  snapping 
their  fingers  in  the  face  of  care.  Not  a  whit  less 
willing  are  the  daughters  to  drown  all  considera- 
tion of  self  in  the  enlivenment  of  their  disconsolate 
parents.  It  is  six  against  one,  and  the  six  over- 
power the  one  with  their  specious  philosophy  of 
"  Things  might  be  worse."  The  machinist  re- 
sumes his  work  in  a  better  frame  of  mind. 

The  entrance  of  Gore,  Moore's  quondam  fore- 
man, interrupts  the  inventor's  labor  again.  The 
newcomer  is  a  black-hearted,  mercenary  wretch, 
whose  one  redeeming  virtue,  an  unredeeming  vice 
rather,  is  ambition.  Nature  has  favored  the  felon 
with  an  exterior  attractive  as  Borneo's,  a  tongue 
persuasive  as  Don  Juan's.  He  is  enamored  of 
the  elder  and  more  comely  sister  Mary,  who  craves 
the  pleasures  of  wealth  and  the  refinements  of 
society,  which  she  judges  the  foreman's  peculiar 
abilities  can  win  for  her  gratification.  It  evolves 


234  POOR  PEOPLE 

that  Gore's  adoration  of  Mary  is  less  tropical  than 
his  passion  for  her  father's  model  of  the  rotary 
engine.  He  cozzens  the  unworldly-wise  machinist 
out  of  the  rights  of  his  patents  with  a  little  ready 
cash ;  he  fascinates  the  daughter  with  a  less  ready 
wit. 

Robert  Critchell,  who  dwells  on  the  floor  above 
the  Moores,  pays  court  to  the  younger  sister  Lot- 
tie, saint  and  seamstress  too.  He  is  a  poet,  a 
writer  of  stories  by  night,  an  optician  by  day; 
socialist  and  defender  of  the  people  at  all  times. 
Without  a  struggle  she  surrenders  herself  captive 
to  the  charms  of  this  knight  errant.  He  is  worthy 
of  this  heart  of  gold  in  all  respects  but  one,  and 
the  single  exception  rules  his  many-sided  worthi- 
ness of  no  avail.  The  strong  soul  is  a  weakling 
before  the  temptation  of  drink.  The  parents  re- 
fuse to  trust  "Golden  Heart"  to  his  dangerous 
keeping. 

With  this  introduction  of  the  principal  charac- 
ters the  curtain  goes  down  with  a  bow. 

I  cut  away  all  the  ornamentation  and  give  but 
the  undecorated  substance;  I  tear  off  the  warm 
flesh,  quivering,  and  present  but  the  dry  bones  of 
the  plot  —  a  skeleton  bare  and  unattractive.  The 
dialogue,  sharp,  crisp,  and  bright ;  the  scintillating 
wit ;  the  humor,  the  deep  pathos  —  the  thousand 
and  one  details  that  went  to  make  up  the  great 
sum  of  the  first  act,  I  am  forced  to  omit. 

With  an  impatience  pitched  to  the  key  of  pain 
we  awaited  the  plans  of  destiny  for  the  various 
members  of  the  Moore  family. 


POOR  PEOPLE  235 

Second  Act.  Same  scene.  Gore  has  transformed 
the  old  inventor's  brain  into  a  mint  for  coming 
his  own  fortune.  Mary  becomes  the  wife  of  the 
master  of  the  mint,  and  is  the  only  member  of  the 
family  who  can  revel  in  the  auriferous  shower 
that  should  have  refreshed  them  all.  Moore's 
three  sons  leave  the  paternal  roof  to  emigrate  to 
the  far  West  in  quest  of  the  success  that  eluded 
them  at  home.  We  witness  the  rollicking  merri- 
ment of  the  nuptial  festival  —  almost  a  cineometo- 
graphic  reproduction  of  our  celebration  of  Jane's 
wedding.  Lottie  takes  advantage  of  the  joyous- 
ness  of  the  occasion  to  plead  the  cause  of  her  own 
lover.  The  court  remains  unconvinced,  and  the 
attorney  threatens  to  run  all  the  risks  of  contempt 
and  act  on  her  own  volition.  Unbeknown  to  their 
daughter,  Moore  and  his  wife  appeal  to  the  honor 
of  the  poet,  beseeching  him  not  to  form  an  alli- 
ance so  disastrous  to  her  welfare.  He  bows  sub- 
missive to  their  will.  He  departs  for  the  West 
that  night  with  Moore's  sons,  bidding  farewell  to 
all  that  makes  his  sad  life  endurable.  The  heart- 
broken seamstress,  tortured  by  the  mystery  of  her 
true  love's  desertion,  and  the  helpless  old  couple 
remain  alone  in  the  tenement. 

Here  the  curtain  falls  as  if  to  hide  their  misery 
from  prying  eyes. 

Would  that  Thomas  Wilson  might  borrow 
Adolph's  Fortunatus  purse  of  inexhaustible  wit 
and  eloquence  for  the  nonce ;  then  could  he  pay 
an  adequate  tribute  to  the  master  workmanship  of 
that  second  act. 


236  POOR  PEOPLE 

No  applause  thus  far.  A  few  moist  eyes  con- 
ceal their  shame  beneath  the  surreptitious  winking 
of  eyelids  and  the  stealthy  fluttering  of  handker- 
chiefs. A  sporadic  ripple  of  approval,  stirred  by 
clapping  hands,  is  heightened  to  a  wave  by  the 
stentorian  yell  from  the  combined  lung  power  of 
our  friends  Malachy  and  Dr.  Jan.  Vogel  stands 
up  and  cries,  "  Adolphchen,  mein  sohn  Adolph- 
chen !  "  An  usher  taps  him  on  the  shoulder  to 
command  silence,  while  the  parquette  wonders  who 
this  crazy  and  demonstrative  oldster  may  be. 

Rounds's  whole  face  has  borrowed  the  hue  of 
his  florid  spots ;  Jane's  cheeks  are  flushed,  and 
she  twiddles  her  fan  and  taps  it  on  her  hand  ner- 
vously. I  take  courage  to  glance  at  mother  and 
Ida.  They  are  gazing  into  infinity,  sorrow  circling 
in  deep  lines  about  their  pursed  lips  and  woe 
hovering  over  their  blanched  countenances.  Ida's 
eyes  rest  on  mine,  and  my  coward  soul  turns  away, 
not  daring  to  meet  her  reproachful  look.  Yes, 
she  knows  the  reason  that  prompted  Adolph's  de- 
sertion now.  Hamlet-like,  Adolph  has  caught  my 
conscience  with  a  play.  May  the  punishment  of 
the  two  kings  in  this  tragedy  free  the  blameless 
Ophelia  from  her  unjust  chastisement. 

Third  Act.  The  home  of  Gore  the  affluent 
fraud,  preposterously  arrogant  in  his  victory  won 
by  stolen  arms.  Is  Adolph  a  magician?  has  he  the 
power  of  second  sight  ?  or  is  he  simply  an  imagi- 
native logician  who  deduces  the  series  of  events 
from  the  first  half  of  a  character's  life  which  must 
inevitably  befall  his  last  half?  The  wretched 


POOR  PEOPLE  237 

existence  of  Darby  and  Joan  in  the  house  of  their 
daughter,  forced  thither  by  dire  want,  is  as  like 
mine  and  mother's  at  Jane's  as  if  the  playwright 
had  been  on  the  spot  to  make  a  literal  transcrip- 
tion. 

When  the  faithful  seamstress  visits  her  lonely 
parents  in  the  mansion  of  her  fashionable  sister, 
and  they  beg  her  with  broken  voices  to  take  them 
back  with  her  to  their  wretched  abode  in  the  tene- 
ment and  to  let  them  die  there  —  ah,  when  the 
curtain  unrolled  to  close  that  scene,  I  wondered 
why  the  very  walls  of  the  building  were  not  warm 
with  human  tears.  But  it  was  an  unresponsive 
audience  after  all,  few  well  enough  acquainted  with 
tenement  people  to  appreciate  this  faithful  picture 
of  their  lives. 

Rounds  and  Jane  had  left  the  theatre ;  I  saw 
their  hurried  exit.  "The  image  of  a  murder 
done  in  Vienna  made  the  galled  jade  wince." 

Fourth  Act ;  the  last,  alack  !  The  old  inventor 
and  his  wife,  seated  in  the  bare,  squalid  tenement, 
are  holding  hushed  converse  about  the  meaning  of 
their  daughter's  departure.  "  Golden  Heart "  left 
early  that  morning,  and  she  has  not  returned  yet. 
One  dreads  to  tell  the  other  that  she  staggered 
under  the  burden  of  their  support,  and  that  she 
has  deserted  them,  yet  one  feels  that  the  other 
knows.  They  are  alone  in  the  world  ! 

We  observe  in  their  talk,  in  their  appearance, 
in  their  movements,  that  senility  has  led  Darby 
and  Joan  back  to  their  childhood.  They  are 
haunted  by  the  hallucination  that  the  world  is  a 


238  POOR  PEOPLE 

shadow,  a  dream,  that  forms  to  dissolve  and  dis- 
solves to  form  again.  Pitiful  is  their  clinging  to 
each  other. 

The  illusion  that  their  boys  are  coming  home 
obsesses  their  vagarious  fancy.  They  light  the 
lamp,  striving  to  bring  cheer  in  the  cheerless 
room.  They  bedeck  the  table  with  what  deceiv- 
ing vision  conjures  spotless  linen  and  choicest 
viands.  They  hear  imaginary  conversations  ;  the 
boys  are  come !  They  place  them  at  the  table ; 
Michael  is  to  sit  there,  Daniel  here,  William  at 
his  mother's  left.  The  boys  confess  that  they  re- 
turn poorer  than  when  they  went  away.  "  Never 
mind,"  console  Darby  and  Joan,  "  we  have  plenty ; 
you  shall  not  want  so  long  as  we  are  alive." 

Then  a  lucid  minute  dawns  upon  them,  and 
the  old  man  whispers  :  — 

"  If  they  were  only  here  ;  if  it  were  only  true  !  " 

"  Shadows,  shadows ;  it  is  all  a  shadow,"  she 
answers. 

Unexpectedly  the  seamstress,  "  Golden  Heart," 
flings  the  door  wide  open  and  enters  with  her 
poet,  who  has  returned  from  the  West,  and  whom 
she  has  married  clandestinely.  She  throws  her- 
self into  her  parents'  arms  and  craves  their  bless- 
ing. The  sons  come  in  one  by  one  and  take  their 
seats  at  the  table  as  if  they  had  never  been  away. 
The  old  people  sink  into  their  illusion  again,  mis- 
taking substance  for  shadow  this  time.  They  die 
when  the  dream  of  the  years  comes  true,  believing 
it  still  a  dream. 

The  curtain  dropped ;  the  play  was  done. 


POOR  PEOPLE  239 

Adolph's  old  friends  make  up  in  enthusiasm 
what  they  lack  in  number.  Malachy's  applause 
counts  for  that  of  a  whole  row.  We  carry  some 
of  the  indifferent  ones  away  by  our  fervor,  others 
by  the  force  of  a  good  example ;  still  others  join 
our  ranks  from  mere  good  nature.  We  brew  the 
storm,  and  the  crash  and  thunder  of  approval 
breaks.  Not  until  this  second  did  I  know  that 
Freytag  was  up  in  the  gallery. 

The  downpour  ceases  for  a  second  or  two ;  but 
Malachy,  captain  of  claqueurs,  leads  the  scattered 
ranks  to  another  assault ;  we  fall  in,  the  rest  fol- 
low. A  mighty  deluge  of  applause  sweeps  away 
the  floodgates  of  restraint  and  carries  all  before 
it.  The  actors  pass  in  front  of  the  curtain  again 
and  again,  first  together,  then  singly.  The  cries 
for  author  come  in  tones  that  will  not  be  de- 
nied. They  are  denied,  nevertheless,  for  some  time. 
Finally  Adolph  appears.  He  looks  around  in  his 
slow,  penetrating  manner,  after  his  fashion  that 
we  have  learned  to  know  so  well. 

"  Is  n't  he  ugly ! "  ventures  a  young  lady  behind 
us. 

Ida  turns  to  flash  a  contemptuous  indignation 
upon  her.  I  was  sorry  at  that  particular  moment 
for  anybody  with  views  perverted  enough  to  con- 
sider Adolph  ugly. 

"  He  has  n't  changed  a  particle,"  reflects  Ma- 
thilda aloud. 

Adolph's  eyes  travel  down  the  rows  of  seats 
slowly ;  they  stop  at  Ida.  A  smile  flits  across  his 
face.  He  nods  slightly ;  his  eyes  resume  their 


240  POOR  PEOPLE 

journey.  The  shouts  of  "  Speech !  Speech  !  "  re- 
sound like  a  battle-cry  through  various  parts  of  the 
auditorium.  He  smiles  in  modest  acknowledgment, 
and  walks  from  the  stage.  We  insist  upon  more 
acknowledgment  and  less  modesty.  The  hero  re- 
turns, and  says  in  the  same  way  and  ease  with 
which  he  spoke  at  Jane's  wedding  dinner  :  — 

"  The  little  play  to  which  you  have  chosen  to 
accord  so  hearty  a  welcome,  out  of  the  kindness  of 
your  hearts,  is  simply  a  collection  of  photographs 
that  I  have  taken  of  the  poor  people  with  whom 
I  have  spent  my  life  and  whom  I  love.  Here  and 
there  I  have  colored  the  photographs  with  bits  of 
fancy  and  sentiment  of  my  own.  Had  you  seen 
the  original  scenes  and  people  before  they  im- 
pressed the  camera  of  my  brain,  you  would  know 
that,  after  all,  my  task  has  been  slight  and  of  tri- 
fling worth,  and  all  out  of  proportion  to  the  mea- 
sure of  applause  which  you  see  fit  to  reward  it.  I 
thank  you." 

It  is  all  over ;  the  spectators  are  filing  towards 
the  doors  ;  we  are  pushed  forward  with  the  crowd. 

"  His  success  has  n't  spoiled  him  ;  he  seems  the 
same  as  ever,"  whispers  mother. 

I  give  no  response  ;  I  am  resisting  the  impulse 
to  call  aloud,  "  Shadows  !  Shadows  !  "  The  trans- 
formation from  dream  to  reality,  and  from  reality 
to  dream,  has  been  all  too  sudden. 

Some  one  presses  through  the  throng  and  taps 
me  gently  on  the  shoulder.  It  is  Adolph.  Vogel 
rushes  towards  him,  with  mouth  open,  in  readiness 
to  resound  a  pa3an  of  triumph.  A  disapproving 


POOR  PEOPLE  241 

shake  of  Adolpli's  head,  and  the  paean  is  swallowed 
like  a  bitter  draught. 

Mathilda  and  I  drop  behind. 

Adolph  walks  out  of  the  theatre  arm  in  arm  with 
Ida. 

How  much  better  is  this  fifth  act  than  the  other 
four. 


EPILOGUE 

IN  these  short  annals  of  the  people  who  are 
poor,  laughter  has  claimed  its  pages  as  well  as  sor- 
row, and  the  tear-stained  cheek  has  often  touched 
the  mirthful  jowl.  In  the  gloomiest  of  tragedies 
steps  the  sock  of  Comedy  to  gayly  trip  it  a  grace- 
ful measure  or  two;  and  ever- jealous  Tragedy,  with 
buskined  foot,  solemn  and  slow,  marches  through 
the  merriest  of  comedies.  Empty  the  soul  that 
knows  not  trouble  and  care ;  rare  the  soul  that 
joy  enlivens  not.  Tears  and  smiles  are  the  stuff 
with  which  life  spins  its  many-colored  cloth  on  the 
long  loom  of  time.  Fortune  is  a  wheel  that  re- 
volves without  rest,  and  the  man  well  rounded  has 
met  reverse. 

The  iron-gated  palace  bars  not  the  entrance  of 
Sorrow,  and  Happiness  is  not  affrighted  by  the 
squalor  of  the  homes  of  the  lowly.  Misery  marches 
from  the  mansion  to  take  the  tenement  unawares  ; 
Contentment  escapes  the  hut  of  the  beggar  to  seek 
the  palace  of  the  prince.  For  rank  and  place, 
none  of  these  has  respect.  They  are  pilgrims  who 
wander  and  wander;  nowhere  may  they  abide  until 
custom  frowns  on  change.  It  is  written  that  they 
must  knock  at  every  door  before  their  journey  be 
done. 

Mirth   and   Melancholy  travel   within    hailing 


EPILOGUE  243 

distance,  but  never  together ;  the  sandal  of  the 
one  may  blot  out  the  footprint  that  the  other  has 
stamped  on  the  dust  of  the  highway,  but  never  do 
they  move  side  by  side  with  hands  clasped.  Mel- 
ancholy may  sit  on  the  doorstep  without,  frowning 
at  the  quirks  and  pranks  of  Mirth  within,  and 
Mirth  may  peer  through  the  window  with  mocking 
face  at  Melancholy  moaning  at  the  hearth. 

The  tale  of  the  tenement  has  been  told,  and  the 
sum  of  my  days  has  been  told  with  the  telling. 
The  despair  of  my  past  shifts  and  breaks  like  the 
dissolving  glasses  of  the  kaleidoscope,  merging  in 
the  gladness  of  my  better  time,  perceptible  only 
by  the  contrast  its  dark  colors  afford  to  the  bright- 
ness of  the  perfect  picture.  Hope  plays  the  pre- 
lude to  the  closing  scene ;  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt " 
.has  become  a  sad  note,  recurring  rarely  in  the 
swift  and  swelling  numbers  of  the  symphony. 

In  the  tenement,  art  battled  with  poverty  and 
came  forth  proud  and  triumphant  from  the  com- 
bat, blessing  its  enemy  for  the  strength  that  the 
struggle  gave,  perceiving  that  in  luxury  and  sloth 
the  shield  tarnishes,  and  rust  dulls  the  edge  of  the 
sword  locked  in  idleness. 

In  the  tenement,  love  tried  again  and  again  to 
sink  its  delicate  rootlets  ;  and  again  and  again  they 
seemed  to  dry  and  perish ;  yet,  though  we  divined 
it  not,  love  is  a  resurrection  plant  imperishable  by 
its  nature ;  its  shriveled  fronds,  still  instinct  with 
vitality  hidden,  may  curl  convulsively  to  a  crum- 
bling brown  and  lay  as  dead  for  years,  but  lo  !  it 
dips  a  minute  in  the  drink  it  craves,  and  shim- 


2M  POOR  PEOPLE 

mers  fair  with  lustrous  green.  With  rough  hand 
how  ready  was  I  to  tear  the  dormant  plant  from 
the  soil  and  consign  it  to  the  darkness  of  the 
dust-bin,  instead  of  pouring  water  on  its  thirsty 
leaves  with  loving  solicitude.  Forgive  me,  Ida  and 
Adolph ;  I  knew  not  what  I  did. 

The  tenement  is  a  mine?  Yea,  but  the  bold, 
daring,  and  persistent  - —  with  what  treasures  count- 
less do  they  ascend  to  the  sunlight  of  the  upper- 
world  !  buying  all  its  satisfying  pleasures  with  the 
nuggets  of  ripe  experience  delved  in  the  gloomy 
darkness  when  the  crying  spirit  fainted  with  un- 
utterable weariness.  Descend  thou,  lest  the  glory 
of  the  ascension  remain  as  the  precious  lore  of  a 
book  seven-sealed. 

Angel  of  Charity  and  Mercy,  thy  lamp  was  not 
kindled  in  vain  ;  whilst  the  oil  burned,  shedding 
a  grateful  glow,  I  unearthed  the  gold  I  sought ; 
and  the  end  crowned  my  beginning.  May  the 
rays  of  thy  lamp  fall  undiminished  over  the  path 
of  Adolph  and  Ida  and  the  children  of  their  chil- 
dren; for  though  their  way  wind  through  easier 
realms  than  mine,  yet  comes  temptation  to  the 
sinless,  the  night  engulfs  the  day,  and  the  pit  yawns 
for  the  unwary. 


KLECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED 
BY  H.  O.    HOUGHTON  AND   CO. 


(Cfre 


CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 


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